


kimi = hana

by fishysama



Category: Junjou Romantica
Genre: Ambiguity, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, Casual Sex, College, Drug Abuse, Hanahaki Disease, Heavy Drinking, Hiroki-centric, Horror, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insanity, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Self-Hatred, Sex Toys, Sickfic, Sleep Groping, Suicide mention, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2019-11-02 02:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17879741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishysama/pseuds/fishysama
Summary: hiroki will always love his best friend, even if it kills him.





	1. day 0 - dream

**Author's Note:**

> **[** this chapter is a re-upload. i've changed a lot of things since i first wrote this chapter so i'm deleting the original.
> 
> this was first published on september 9th, 2018 in response to a prompt? i think? whatever. **]**

The digital clock tells Hiroki that it’s eleven thirty-six on a Friday evening. _Which means, if I recall, I fucked the guy that's laying next to me two hours ago._ It wasn’t love-making. It was too rough to be that. It was grabbing and hair pulling and scratching and digging and tugging and kissing that has too much tongue to even be “kissing.” It wasn’t about pleasure, not even compromise. It was an odd dominance fight, one in which you’re not sure which party won. It’s saying he’s “hot” instead of “attractive.” It’s shamelessly calling him someone else's name, hell, screaming it, even though you would never do _that_ to _that_ person. _Now that I think about it, do I even remember his name? Did I ever ask him for his name?_

It was _fucking._

If he were to have sex with Akihiko… it wouldn’t be like that. He wouldn’t be selfish. He wouldn’t even think about himself. Hiroki would only think about his beloved: how beautiful he looks, how beautiful he _is._ It would be about making him feel good, feel happy, feel content about himself. Hiroki would be that vessel to provide what he desires, not just a sexual manner, but mentally, spiritually. He wants to tell him that he belongs to him, or that they belong to each other, and that he loves him, more than anyone else in the world. And Akihiko would smile as he did as a child, when there wasn’t this stress, this tension. He would hold Hiroki as if he was his only.

And when they kiss, it wouldn’t be like _that._ It would be soft and meaningful, and Akihiko would touch Hiroki’s cheek, make a comment on how warm he feels, and run his fingers through his hair. His cool, cool hands. _I want him to love me like he never has loved before; I want him to touch me in ways that aren’t possible, not in this world; I want him to write little love poems about me because he can’t get his mind off me and I want to find said poems under stacks of papers when I clean up for him; I want to read the words that he thinks._

_I want to cry._

It is eleven forty-eight on a Friday evening. Hiroki’s eyes are shut tight; his face scrunched and wrinkled. He cannot sleep: the bed is too hard. Or maybe it’s not the bed keeping him up at night. _It’s the fact the bed isn’t_ his _bed, the man sleeping next to me isn’t_ him. _If I were there with him right now, I would be having such sweet dreams. And my dreams would be filled with thoughts of him, thoughts of the next day, thoughts of our future: rose petals, stacks of old books, pale blue bed sheets, stealing kisses, red wine, fireplaces, plain gold rings, teddy bears, cough syrup, chocolate boxes, alpaca fur blankets, barely sweet wedding cake. And when I’d wake up in the morning, I’d be in his arms, and he would breathe slowly and sweetly through his lips, and I would sleep through the alarm._

The man next to Hiroki snores. It isn’t loud, but it’s a noticeable, draining sound. It wakes him up from his fantasy world, a daydream, or rather, a midnight-dream. It reminds him that Akihiko isn’t beside him. It reminds him that he will probably never be. It reminds him of a reality where the one thing you truly want doesn’t come to fruition.

_My throat aches._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello and welcome! i'm really excited to get started with this fic!!! i'll be doing updates every other week on sunday (day 1 will be up on the 25th!)
> 
> if you like what you see so far, please leave a kudos and comment, click the subscribe button, and check out my other works!! it's writing fuel. and, if you don't like what you see so far, feel free to critique. it helps me improve ☆


	2. day 1 - rose petals

_“I love you.”_

_A soft, simple three words. Three words I never thought I could say. Yet I said them through my soft, simple lips. How could he ever accept something so unextravagant? He wouldn’t._

_Yet he did._

_He, great and famous and handsome and perfect author Usami Akihiko took my hand in his own at the utterance of the words. “Hiroki…” Perfect clear eyes with perfect lavender irises gaze at me, soften. He removes the friendly half-meter of space on the red couch. Our thighs touch. “Hiroki, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”_

_Before I can say a word, I am paralyzed. A large hand caresses my cheek. It is soft, comforting, and warm in the sense of kindness, not of temperature. It pulls the tears from my eyes. It tells me everything’s okay._

_He brings my unworthy body to him, holding me. Like a dream. He sits me in his lap and rubs circles in my back, cooing such sweet tones. Whispering such sweet words: “It’s alright Hiroki;” “I’m right here;” “It’s okay to cry.”_

_I rest my head on his broad shoulder. I feel guilty for my weeping eyes on his expensive dress shirt, but I ravish in it. Ravish in his scent. The warmth of his beautiful, beautiful body._

_When I come out of my trance, I rise from the pathetic slouch and face him._

_Akihiko wipes the lingering tears from my cheeks with the base of his sleeve. I cannot tell if his face is one of empathy or of pity. Are they one and the same?_

_Despite that, I cannot prevent the shame and disgust. More fat tears wet his sleeves. More kind gazes._

_“You know, Hiroki, a boy in England taught me a little charm to cheer you up.”_

_Time stops for a moment. For I, it stops forever. Forever our lips touching, forever our hands holding, forever, forever. May this moment last an eternity. An eternity of love. An eternity of finally being whole. Home._

_Yet, the kiss is not eternal. I must breathe. The tears have stopped; the pain has stopped. A smile on my face, a heart greater than all other, a rose petal on my lips, a love that kills._

_A love that kills._

_I open my tearless eyes. Now they are filled with dread. Every orifice of my body, every organ, every vein. Dread,_ dread, **dread.**

_I pluck a rose petal from my lips. Red like love, red like passion, red like blood._

_Akihiko’s indifferent eyes bore._

 

_“I could never love you, Hiroki.”_

 

_The flowers do not come with an explosion, a “puff,” or a “bang.” They simply fill the space where my love used to be. Akihiko: a man of roses. They drop out of his shape to the couch and floor. Akihiko’s apartment is dark and too large. My hands are filled with red._

_I scream._

 

* * *

 

The door shuts; Hiroki’s partner for the night has left. All he’s left with is the darkness of a blinded and shuttered hotel room. A long sigh draws itself from his lips.

 _Another flower dream._ The consistency of Akihiko blooming in the night has ceased to frighten him. It’s been years of rose petals, even more years of Akihiko. Seemingly every night, Hiroki gets what he always wanted only to lose it moments later. In some senses it’s desensitivity, in others it’s overstimulation.

He turns away from the crack in the blinds. More often than not, his Saturday mornings begin like this: empty hotel rooms and an aching rear end. Each passing week this addiction becomes less enjoyable. Sure, it meets his sexual needs enough to stop wanting to jump on Akihiko when the opportunity presents itself, but the lack of commitment is seriously bothersome. Maybe “unsettling” is a better word. Maybe “disturbing.”

 _Akihiko would never leave me like this._ Every time he tells himself these things, the pain just gets worse. Because every day, Akihiko does leave him. He never brings Advil or kisses foreheads or says “sorry.” He never could.

 

And so, the sickness begins.

Hiroki can’t bear to call it _lovesickness;_ it makes him feel like a teenage girl in heat. It’s just ailment, the aching of muscle and bones and skin at the thought of Akihiko. He can’t stop himself from getting sick. He doesn’t want to. After months and months of abuse, heroin isn’t a happy drug anymore.

This morning begins with the acknowledgment of a sore throat— _Did I suck his dick? No, right?_ He doesn’t want to clear his throat; that would only prove that it was all real or all in his head. _I’m not sick, I’m just thirsty._

He doesn’t feel thirsty. He feels ill. A different sort of ill.

 

His mind too feels heavy this morning; his heart heavier. Worse than usual. Not just a loneliness, but an emptiness. A well filled with no water. The deepest canyon, dry. The color navy.

The reason constantly haunts him; he constantly attempts to brush it off. Akihiko going out to the movies with Takahiro every Friday night. His best friend leaving him behind. His beloved forgetting him.

_I will write “mine” on his forehead with a permanent marker. Will he remember then?_

 

Hiroki’s eyes spot a note in the dim light, something scrawled on a courtesy memo pad. Knowing that it will hurt, he takes the top page off the nightstand. The contents reach a distant Akihiko in a hoarse whisper:

 

_“Thanks for last night cutie. Had a good time ;) If you wanna meet up again, just call me._

_0XX-XXX-XXXX_

_-Saito_

_P.S. Hope things get better with Akihiko.”_

 

He does not read the winky face aloud. But, even without it, his throat is completely raw. Burning. Perhaps it is real sickness for once, not just a projection of heartache in tenderness and pains.

_Is heartache not a real ailment, though?_

He crumples up the note and leaves it where it was found. _Hope the cleaning lady likes married gay men._

 

It takes ages to leave the hotel bed despite its discomfort. There has to be something to distract from the ticklishness of the throat, the mild discomfort. A hot bath would balance out the chill invading his body. He likes to think of it as balancing out rather than numbing. However, it is numbing. He is ignorant of that word. Negativity breeds negativity. Negativity breeds sickness.

It begins with feet on carpeted flooring, the slow stretching of the spine. From the past months of this habit, he has learned how to deal with the _actual_ pain. Anything too fast causes the soreness to intensify. Habituation taught him to meditate.

The flexing of his legs to and from the bed, the slow rolling of his neck, the attempts to take deep breaths: these were the rituals of the morning after. He learned how not to think in these mornings, how not to cry from the invading thoughts. Yet the soreness of his throat this morning distracts and reminds. The inability to focus is all he can think of.

He stands. The burning is unbearable.

It’s a short, agonizing walk to the bathroom. Each step is accompanied by pain, guilty thoughts, and the realization that no amount of breathing exercises can rid of them. _I need to look in the mirror. Then I can see what is wrong. And it will be physical and not just in my head. And it will be real and not fantasy._

The mirror extends from the ceiling to the sink, reflecting a portion of the shower curtain. It fits only the ends of his bare shoulders in frame. It gawks.

There is nothing wrong, nothing wrong more than the usual “wrong.” His skin is paler than it should be, semi-circles beneath his eyes and red marks from last night dotting his neck and collarbone. There is a bitterness about his expression.

There is blood in his mouth, he can taste it. Yet there is nothing wrong. There is never anything wrong, any physical proof of wrongness. He needs there to be blood. He needs something.

 

Each morning, he wakes expecting a physical symptom: some bruise, some cut, some sign of something at all. When he sees there is nothing, he wishes that there was. He wishes something could validate this compulsive sex, this constant struggle. He needs something outside of the aching muscles with no bruises and headaches with no blow to the cranium. A sign that he’s not going completely insane.

A sign.

Butterflies in his stomach, moths in his throat. They bat their wings, tickling and scratching Hiroki’s insides. The urge to cough starts again, the rawness of flesh. He grips the edge of the porcelain sink with one hand, the other shielding his mouth. The coughing felt more like dry-heaving, like something need to come out. Like violence.

It’s no use. The itchiness simply refuses to cease. With a groan, he removes his hand from his mouth, inspecting the spit and redness-

Red all over.

There is something in Hiroki’s mouth. Something against his tongue. He’s certain of it.

He glances up at the mirror again. He observes paleness. He observes blood spotting a palm. He observes an open mouth. He observes a flower petal in an open mouth. He observes a red rose.

This is the moment in horror movies when the girl walks into the room and finds the body. Yes, that moment. The temporary inability to scream, articulate thoughts, and breath normally. The shock.

 

_I’ve gone completely insane._

 

He plucks the thing from his tongue. It can’t be, but it can’t not be. Not just a petal, a rose petal. Akihiko has invaded every inch of his body; he is a cancer from the heart spreading to the lungs and throat and mouth and brain. Akihiko has created his insanity.

He holds the petal close to his eyes, watching as spit and blood drip from the material. The deep red curves and comes to a clear white on one end. All the wasted petals in his nightmares have finally taken shape into a true hallucination.

It was proof. Not the proof he wanted, but still proof. Proof of his insanity. Proof that it really has been all in his head, but not in a good way.

_Isn’t this what I wanted?_

He takes a half-ply tissue from the plastic box on the vanity and wraps the petal carefully. It was evidence.

 

Hiroki was never good with the bath controls at unsavory hotels like these. Cold water streams from the shower head, chilling his body. Swirls of blood disappear into the drain. He will not go to a doctor. For now, he will cough.


	3. day 2 - stacks of old books

Hiroki wakes with a heart full of flowers. Somehow, morning had come to him again. Somehow, his throat still aches.

The steps it took to get from the fuck-hotel to his cluttered apartment are foreign to him. Nearly all of yesterday’s events are gone as well. He would have pinned the flower incident as a dream if it weren’t for the deep aching of his throat and the petal fluttering to his palm with a particularly strong cough.

When Hiroki throws his legs to the right edge of his bed, he nearly knocks over some container. In his hazy confusion, he picks up the dark plastic bottle, studying the sleep-blurred characters. His tired brain finally catches up to his tired eyes: “Cough syrup.” The liquid is halfway down the vial. The protective plastic is sloppily torn.

_ Ah. So that’s it. _

On Sunday night, he was drunk on whiskey; on Monday morning, he’s high on cough meds. Neither of the drugs helped with particularly anything. His brain and trachea still burned.

_ Monday morning. _ Judging by the amount of light peeking through his curtains, he had already missed his English lecture. It wouldn’t surprise him if he slept through his Ancient Poetry class— the only lecture he had with a certain “a” name— too. For a senior at the top of his class, one would think it would at least be a bother. But, the sickness is the only thing on Hiroki’s mind. Complete amnesia should bother him more than Matsuo Basho, right? Roses in his lungs _ should _ be the main disturbance, right?

Hiroki shakily unscrews the brown vial and takes a swig.  _ I need to figure some shit out. _

  
  


Wearing a cotton face mask he apparently bought the previous day and two more layers than needed for a pleasant spring morning, Hiroki takes to the streets. The first stop is the campus library, followed by hopefully his GP, followed hopefully by the local pharmacy.  _ Hopefully, hopefully. _ He hopes that his disease is one of the body and not one of the mind.

 

Teito’s campus is only a stones-throw away from Hiroki’s humble abode, but it feels like an eternity today. For some reason, the lush trees and flower boxes dotting the scenery don’t seem to lighten his mood. The drab concrete-on-concrete-on-asphalt of Tokyo seemed to overpower the hints of nature.

It was times like these where Hiroki misses his childhood in Azabu: each day spent walking with Akihiko among the nature, laying with Akihiko in the clearing of blues and whites and greens, holding hands and watching the stars with Akihiko,  _ with Akihiko. _

His throat tightens at the thought of his friend’s perfect name. His heart throbs. Now, they were older. Now, it would be odd to spend every waking moment together. Now, Hiroki’s throat aches.

At the moment, he bets on a disease of the mind.

 

Something about the sheer immensity of Teito’s library was comforting to him. Tall, cream-colored pillars lining each corner of the thirty-story building, olive vines ascending thousands of maroon bricks: these were the things Hiroki found soothing. Of course, there was still pain, but the larger-than-life visuals took his mind off it.

Going into study mode meant blocking  _ everything _ out. Naturally, he takes to the shelves with curiosity. Among the millions of books and journals, he searches for the diagnostic manuals, medical histories, and the oddities of the human body. His arms are filled with more books than they can handle; his heart is filled with joy. All the knowledge in the world and all the time to absorb it!

 

There is nothing.

Hiroki searched through every appendix of every book in every edition and there is nothing. No flowers, no flower diseases, no cure to his non-existent ailment. He even went through each possible lung, throat, and mouth disease: no matches, nothing even close. But, of course, schizophrenia still fit the bill.

He buries his head into the fourth edition of the DSM.  _ I really am hopeless, huh? _

The shrill tone of Hiroki’s cell phone is accompanied by the embarrassment of having the ringer on before the understanding that a call is coming through. Hiroki would have hung it up if it weren’t for the caller ID. His heart stops for a moment.

Hiroki hits the green button. “One second. Don’t hang up,” comes in a whisper.

Trying to drop all of the books into the “return” slot without shutting his precious flip-phone was a balancing act performed with little ease. Yet, it was a success.

After an impressively quick and quiet sprint— especially for a sick man—, Hiroki enters the streets once again. Nervously, he lifts the phone to his ear. “H-Hey.”

“Hi, Hiroki. Where are you?”

They are only words. They are only words and yet… Akihiko’s voice is a harp singing exquisite chords, a song of love and beauty. The sounds caress and hold every inch of Hiroki’s unworthy body; they take him from a sea of dread. The voice warms him and comforts him like no other: its deep bass tones with a sweet, light meaning.  _ Where am I? I am here with you, always. _

Hiroki finds himself a place to sit— beneath an oak tree too big for the cluttered area of the city. “I was at the library.”

There’s a playful note to Akihiko’s voice now. “Oh, you’re skipping class then? I was thinking you were home sick.”

Hiroki grits his teeth, muttering, “For your information, I  _ am _ sick. I just wanted to look up what I got before I go to the doctor.”

“Doctor? Is it really that bad?” A lilt of kind concern enters his song now. Akihiko is always kind, even when he’s cruel.

“...Yeah, I think so. My throat really hurts. It might be strep.” Hiroki not only lies to Akihiko, but to himself. If he believes it’s some normal ailment, then it will be. Fake it ‘til you make it.

“Ah, I can hear the hoarseness in your voice. Do you have any medicine? I can bring you some if you’d like.”

Hiroki’s body crumbles at the offer. His eyes grow lidded.  _ Medicine for me. _ It was a simple offer, one that didn’t suggest any feelings, but Hiroki puts the words in his mouth.  _ He cares. He cares for me. _ Hiroki foul lips, however, juxtapose, “I already picked some stuff up yesterday.” No “thank you.” No nothing. His teeth grind on his chapped lip.

Akihiko scoffs— a light, beautiful sound! “Do you need anything else then? I don’t want you to go out much.”

Hiroki rests his feverish forehead on his palm. He is nearly curled into a ball on the stone bench. Everything feels warm to him, not because of the several jackets, but because of the suggestions behind his words.  _ He doesn’t want me to go out. He wants me to get better. He wants to make me feel better. _

Hiroki’s words barely reach above a whisper. “Can you bring me the work from my classes? And your notes?” He closes his eyes for a moment, soaking in the warmth of Akihiko’s breath. Even quieter, even softer, carefully: “Please?”

Akihiko exhales the way he does when he smiles. The slight upturn of his lips and the crinkling at the corners of his eyes paints itself in Hiroki’s mind; he can see the beautiful grin behind his eyelids.

Hiroki covers his mouth. The sudden urge to cry fills him. The tightness in his stomach. Burning eyes.

“Of course I can, Hiroki. Thank you for asking cutely.”

_ Cutely. _ If his body weren’t reacting so oddly, Hiroki would have shouted at him— “Who do you think you’re calling cute!?” But, just at the sound of such an empty word, Hiroki turns soft and mushy.  _ Cute. He called me cute. _

_ I want him to hold me and hold me and hold me and only me in his arms. I want him to brush back the hair that covers my eyes and kiss my brow. Call me cute. Call me and no one else cute. Hold me. _

 

“...Just get your manuscript done first. I don’t want to push back your work.”

“Oh… It’s gonna be Wednesday then. Is that okay?”

“I-It’s fine.”

“...”

“Thank you, Akihiko.”

“Of course.”

Hiroki flips his phone shut, trembling. He rises from the stone bench and stumbles into the alleyway between the library and a laundromat. He yanks off his mask and vomits. The pain has disappeared.

  
  


After a long, long cry in the only stall of the library bathroom, Hiroki flings the elastic strap of his face mask over his ear. Finally, the lingering pain had returned.

He washes his hands for several minutes; no one was coming in and giving him weird looks for doing so, so he just kept going. Raw, red hands. He couldn’t let the disease spread. He adjusts his messy hair in the mirror, trying to not look like someone who spent the last thirty minutes sobbing. His eyes showed enough.

Hiroki’s plans for the day had changed drastically after his research session. He couldn’t go to a doctor, not now. He’d end up in a mental ward far from Akihiko. Far, far away. He’d rather die.

The books in the library seemed to have nothing (nothing pleasant, at least) to offer, so the next stop was his laptop. The internet was the way of the future, after all. It must be better. It must be reliable.

 

After the second eternity of walking today, Hiroki locks his door behind himself. Usually, Hiroki doesn’t feel any joy when arriving at his messy apartment, but today it felt amazing to be home. He’d been wanting to lay down ever since he left.

So, he does. His position is a peculiar one; he lays flat on his back, head tilted to face the laptop on his chest. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but he’s too exhausted to try anything else. If it worked with a minimal amount of movement, it was perfect.

He starts off with a simple search: “coughing up flower petals.” To his relief, the letters filled themselves in. It was common, at least to some extent.

But, the results aren’t exactly comforting. The was no  _ Mayo Clinic  _ nor  _ WebMD _ , nothing that looked like a reliable medical journal. All that came up were sites with the title “Hanahaki Disease.”  _ What a clever name… _

He avoids the  _ Urban Dictionary _ link—  for obvious reasons— and goes for the second result. It’s a site that looks a lot like  _ Wikipedia  _ but definitely isn’t. He skims through the contents of the almost- _ Wiki _ article, face slowly growing from one of hopefulness to one of despair.

It’s fictional. Nearly every sentence says the disease is fictional.  _ Which means… I’m not real? _

No. That isn’t an option.  _ Idiot... _

Hiroki starts from the top again, mumbling to himself. He must have missed something... “...a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear...  _ BL..? _

“...when the object of the victim's love returns their affections, thus making the love no longer unrequited. The victim is then cured of the disease. This may happen spontaneously when the object of affections realizes his— it's usually a “him”— love- _ It’s usually a “him!?” _ ...The most common version is when the victim's lungs get filled with the flowers and roots grow in their respiratory system. They choke on their own blood and petals and die. It is popular due to the angst that comes with character death…

“...The flowers are surgically removed, as are the victim's feelings of love, meaning they can no longer love the person they once loved…”

 

_...You made flowers grow in my lungs and, although they are beautiful, I cannot breathe… _

 

Hiroki slams his laptop shut.  _ My life is fucking fanfiction. I’m a fictional “him” character!!!! What the actual fuck-!!!! _

Hiroki sits up, trying to slow his spinning mind. He isn’t a fanfiction. He isn’t fictional. His _ love _ isn’t fictional.

 

_ I’m just insane. _

 

But somewhere in his spinning mind, the dots connect. It makes sense for once. Akihiko would never love him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a site that looks a lot like wikipedia but definetly isn't ](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Hanahaki_Disease)


	4. day 3 - pale blue bed sheets

Hot, sticky summer air doesn’t fit the usual picture of spring in Tokyo. The city is sleeping tonight, all that’s left is the neverending whir of Hiroki’s air-con. As he flips through a book, the humidity envelopes him, attracted by the sick, fevered sweating. The pages too are heavy, falling victim to the moisture in the air. It’s lost the crisp feel it had in the second-hand bookstore: the place of its preservation.

A flower dictionary. It was a doubtful purchase— like he would ever reference after the sickness passes. _ Sickness. _ As if that was the correct word try to describe his infliction. These thorns in his trachea, that was a wound. Akihiko, stuffing brambles and floral decor down his throat. He’s become a dead man walking.

Chrysanthemum, lily, poppy, daffodil. His eyes drag along the groups of text, trying to form meaning or connection. What are the signs? He searches for something that relates to unrequited love, something that reminds him of Akihiko, something beautiful.

When he breathes, his lungs are full with the shallow things. It burns.  _ The rose… _

A ringtone pops his eardrums. Startled, he jumps up, pressing whatever looks like the answer button on his cellphone. A groggy response to the ringing comes from deep within his chest: “Yes?”

“Are you doing okay?”

Hiroki’s eyes go wide. Akihiko? At this hour? He straightens himself out quickly, trying to at least  _ feel  _ presentable. His words are all cluttered; they spill, “Um, yeah, I’m fine… Besides, why are you calling me this late?”

The beloved sighs, “I was just working on this paper for law studies. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead or something. It’s a bit scary not seeing you around.”

“Oh…” The insensitive sensitivity of Akihiko’s concerns is enough to get his eyes watering. His body temperature somehow surpasses the air’s by leaps and bounds. “Y-Yeah… I’m alright.” A selfish part of him wants Akihiko more than anything.  _ Come over and treat me, take care of me. Hold me, _ he wants to say.  _ Take me, _ he doesn’t want to say. He still thinks it.  _ I want to see him right now. I need to. _ But at the same time, it’s the thing Hiroki fears the most.

He hums softly, “I’m sorry that I couldn’t come over today. I’ve been busy with my novel as well. But, I’ll bring some pages for you to read tomorrow,” he scoffs, “And homework too.”

_ Tomorrow. _ He keeps a small smile to himself with warm cheeks. There's a want inside of him, just to listen to such a perfect voice speak forever. “Thank you.”

Akihiko chuckles in his low, sweet inflection, “It’s odd for you to act so cutely, Hiroki.”  _ “Arigatou,” _ he mocks.

Now it’s all hot. Hot, hot, hot. Akihiko makes this compliment seem like an off-hand comment, but yet… He muffles his mouth, shifting his legs.  _ It’s hot. _ “...I’m cute…” He palms the growing erection without even thinking about it.

“Sure.” A lighter flicks on, “I’m gonna go finish this paper. Sleep well.”

“Mhm…” It hurts when Hiroki touches himself, a subtle aching, “Good night…”

“Night.” He clicks off like that, insensitive of him.

Hiroki allows the phone to drop into the mattress, coughing. The pain in his throat returns in an instant. Hiroki has figured it out: Akihiko cures him, even if it is momentarily. In just a quick phone call, Hiroki seems perfectly fine. But when the dial tone rings, the pain multiplies in tenfold. The first morning it was a tickling. But now it has become a scraping: harsh and rough— not to mention his lower half. Hot, burning. All for Akihiko.

_ Cute. _ Hiroki buries his face into his pillow, softening the already soft whimpers that escape his lips.  _ Cute. _ He grinds himself into the mattress. He makes pictures in his head. Tiny noises.  _ Cute. Hiroki, you’re cute. _

He wants to cry.

 

As a distraction from his arousal, from the thought of Akihiko all together, Hiroki picks an old newspaper off his nightstand. He reads of tragedies from months ago, real estate listings, and missing pets. He reads an advert for a sex hotline: cherry red lips and suggestive text. He reads it again. Again. And, like it was instinctive, he copies the number into his landline.

A shrill note plays. Hiroki shifts slightly.  _ No going back now… _

An older, seductively-voiced woman speaks into his ear, “Hello handsome. Welcome to the line. You are speaking to Haruka. How may I help you today?”

His hands shake a bit, already thoroughly embarrassed. He’s not sure if not being able to see her face makes it better or worse. “I-” He coughs, voice roughened by thorns, “I- um, I don’t know. What’s your normal sales ploy..?”

She speaks smoothly, “Well, we have many fine ladies on the line today. Do you have a particular type?”

“...Like?”

She scoffs, “Oh, playful, mature, innocent— I won’t judge you, dear.”

“Men—” He covers his mouth, beads of sweat forming on his brow.  _ Maybe it  _ is  _ better that I can’t see her… _ “Do you have any male, um, representatives?”

She lets out a low chuckle.

_ Ugh… _ His face turns bright red at the sound.  _ …Why did I think this was a good idea? _

She returns to her cool and composed tone, “Yes, don’t worry, deary. We have one open. I think you’ll like him.”

“O-Okay…”  _ When will these flowers suffocate me for good? _

“I’ll connect you with him momentarily. Here’s the mandatory speil: fees are 150 yen per minute; once you are finished, your receipt will be read; the fee will be added to your phone bill, et cetera, et cetera.” She clicks her tongue, “Is that alright with you?”

“It’s fine.”

“Have fun, sweetheart. Don’t sue us—” she cuts herself off with another shrill tone.

 

The line is silent for a moment. He can hear his heart pounding intensely; the guy on the other end probably can hear it too.

“Hi baby, how are you?” a semi-Akihiko voice whispers to Hiroki.

He shivers, stumbling, “H-Hi…”

“Oh!” the man’s voice dips a pitch, “Sorry, maybe ‘baby’’s not the right word…” This lower voice is near perfect, matching the unrequited’s to a tee.

“I-um-I’m sorry. How… how does this work?”

“However you’d like it to work,” the suave man says, “Do you have a particular fantasy you want to play out?”

_ Fantasy… _ “Can… can I call you ‘Akihiko?’” His grip on the telephone tightens.  _ This is way too embarrassing. _

He isn’t fazed: “And what would you like me to call you?”

“My name is Hiroki.”

“Ooh,” a smile enters his voice, “What a lovely name… What is ‘Akihiko’ like?”

“Akihiko— Akihiko is kind. And… And Akihiko,” he slips a white lie, “he loves me a lot. And he always tells me. He’s very romantic,” he slips a black truth, “and cruel.”

Fake-ihiko coos softly, “Oh, am I?” He drinks something. “What do you want to do with me, love?”

He tries to make himself as quiet as possible, “I want…” His body heats up, everything going mushy.  _ Is it the illness or the enamoration that’s scrambling my brains, killing my judgment? Are they one and the same? _ “We watch movies together sometimes,” he feels his budding nipples through his undershirt, “I want him to turn it off, say that he can’t focus with me around and— and he pushes down and fucks me right there on the couch, and he’ll whisper all these sweet dirty things to me and-” Hiroki gasps, his legs trembling. Even the elastic of his underwear on his cock gets him going. _ Even this guy’s voice… _

“Mm?” He chuckles softly, “My, Hiroki, what’s gotten into you? Spouting such lewd things… I ought to tell your mother.”

“Shut up, you bastard-” he catches himself.  _...What am I doing? _

He scoffs softly, “Do you have a dildo or something to that effect? I think it would help.”

“Yeah...” It’s the first time he’s admitted to that out loud. _ It’s terrifying. _ He stumbles to reach for the sock drawer where the hot pink pitiful thing resides. Shame on shame; it wasn’t just a dildo, it was a vibrator. It feels lewd, dirty.

“How perverted, Hiroki. Is my cock not good enough for you?”

While pulling out the drawer his leg slips, pressing his painfully erect self against the bed. An estranged groan escapes his lips into the transmitter.

“No cheating,” Akihiko scolds, “You can’t touch yourself without  my permission, Hiroki. That isn’t fair.”

His breaths are shallow and labored. Shivering. “It-It was an accident, I swear!” His hands finally find the phallic shape, bringing it back to the bed.

 

“My, my,” he chuckles, “Now what movie would you like to watch? I was thinking something scary.”

Without realizing it, he falls into this twisted roleplay, letting Fake-ihiko deal all the cards. “That sounds okay.”

“Do you get scared from these sorts of things, Hiroki?”

He can feel the voice getting seemingly closer and closer, seeping through his ears. “S-Sometimes.” It’s a sad truth.

“Oh? Then you can sit closer to me. I wouldn’t want you to get too frightened.”

Hiroki can see the movie, a slasher in all of its red and black color, behind his eyelids. His hands ghostly lift his undershirt.

Akihiko gasps suddenly, “That even scared me a bit there.”

Hiroki sees him flinch and grip his side tighter, “I know it did.”

“Say, Hiroki?”

“Y-Yes?”

“Is that your penis against my leg?”

Hiroki’s heart is a thunderstorm. He presses his thighs together. A distant Hiroki sheepishly removes his silken pants. “...’m sorry…”

Akihiko doesn’t grimace, merely smirks, “That’s alright, it’s natural. It’s natural when you’re afraid.”

They only breathe for minutes. Akihiko’s hand has crept down to Hiroki’s ass. He squeezes the swell gently. When Hiroki looks away from my boxy television set, he can see an erection protruding from Akihiko’s sweatpants. He doesn’t speak. He can’t breathe.

He clears his throat, “Y-Your’s is hard too.”

“Is it now?” Akihiko squeezes his ass again, daring to slip beneath the underwear, “Were you looking?”

Hiroki rolls his head onto his chest, “...not on purpose.”

“No?”

“N-No.”

“Do you like it when I touch you here?” He rubs his thumb along the curve of Hiroki’s ass, “Is that why?”

“O-Of course not! Idiot…” He tries to focus on the movie, but it fails. He accidentally brushes against Akihiko’s leg, letting out a whimper.

“Ah,” Akihiko pushes back, “so it does feel good, huh?”

“That’s not—”

He slips beneath the underwear, tracing his hole. Hot, hot everywhere.

“Hiroki do you mind if I pause the movie for a minute?”

“...”

 

A mash of lips, tongue, and teeth. Akihiko’s hands touching his body, embarrassing him, loving him, loving him  _ forever _ . Tongue and lips and hands and breath everywhere. Hiroki’s vision goes white.

“Fuck, Hiroki,” Akihiko takes a second to breathe, running his hand along Hiroki’s jawbone, “You dirty tease. How am I supposed to focus with you looking like that?”

Hiroki is speechless. Sweat cascades down his body, his groin aches. All he can think about is how beautiful Akihiko looks, how beautiful he  _ is, _ Akihiko, only Akihiko, forever. Hiroki’s arms drag him closer, letting them touch. Skin on skin. Forever.

“I want you so bad. Right now.” Akihiko forces Hiroki’s arms above his head, exposing his shivering torso. He drags his fingers down his chest, studying every shift and turn. He kisses Hiroki’s neck; a red mark forms with sucking. “You’re mine now, okay? All mine.”

“A-Akihiko…” Hiroki’s trembling lips manage to produce words, or rather, one word. The most important word. “...Akihiko…”

Akihiko, satisfied, lets go of Hiroki’s wrists and begins to unbutton his shirt, exposing a perfectly smooth and muscular chest. “What is it, my love?”

Hiroki’s mouth goes fills with saliva at his own thoughts, his own fantasies. His back arches and turns. Slow, slurred stutters: “I-I lo- I like y-you. I like you a l-l-lot. I n-need you s-so much, Akihiko. Aki-Akihiko…”

Popping off the last button, Akihiko throws his dress shirt— Who wears a full suit to movie night? He does, he does.— off the couch. His perfectly toned stomach is eaten up by Hiroki’s eyes, yet he is still hungry for more. More love. More touching.

Akihiko smirks a deadly smirk. “I know you do. Come here.”

Another kiss consumes Hiroki, weakening all of his systems. Akihiko’s hands slither underneath Hiroki’s sweatshirt, teasing nipples and tracing ribs. A complete and utter ravishing of every portion of his defenseless body: this was all Hiroki has ever wanted. This is what he’s  _ needed  _ this entire time. This was the antidote.

 

Akihiko breaks away, moving his mouth to more needy places. It starts with the sucking of Hiroki’s swollen nipples and slowly descends to leaving marks on his lower abdomen. Hiroki can’t help but let his voice out with each movement, filling the room with terribly lewd sounds.

“You’re delectable, Hiroki… Can I taste you down here too?” Akihiko pulls back the elastic with his teeth, letting his cock spring free.

“I-I… um…” Hiroki covers his blushing face with his hands. “O-Okay.”

Akihiko immediately gets to work, licking along the length of Hiroki’s cock with a grin. “You’re so delicious with all those noises you’re making, Hiroki,” he laps at the precum forming at the tip, “I might have to eat you up.”

Hiroki’s hips buckle as Akihiko’s mouth engulfs his member— such a beautiful sight. It feels like his heart is about to explode. Akihiko looking up at  _ him  _ with those perfect lavender eyes, running his fingers down  _ his _ torso, taking  _ him _ completely: the thought of it is enough to make his eyes well up with tears. It’s enough to kill him.

Akihiko’s lips retract from his member, a strand of saliva connecting the two. He begins to undo his belt. Anticipation. “Hiroki, my love. My sweetheart.” The outline of Akihiko’s cock comes into sight as he unzips of his slacks: perfectly-sized genitalia hiding behind a sheath of white cloth. Hiroki’s mouth waters.

“Hiroki.”

“Akihiko.”

Akihiko takes off the rest of Hiroki’s clothes, placing throw pillows beneath his head and lower back. He climbs between his legs. “Hiroki.”

Hiroki pulls his love in by the waist with his ankles. He brushes his porcelain cheek with his thumb. “Akihiko…”

Akihiko takes a pair of fingers in his mouth, leaving them dripping with saliva. They slide in Hiroki with no hesitation. “I want to fuck you so bad, Hiroki. Please.”

Hiroki shivers with the feeling of the intrusion— so familiar yet so strange. He does not respond to Akihiko’s dirty words, only arches his back and releases a lithe moan in his ear.

“I need you right now.” Within an instant, Akihiko removes his fingers and replaces them with something much more satisfying.

A pulse runs up Hiroki’s spine; his jaw goes slack with sound. Everything he’s ever wanted has been provided within a few moments. His mind flutters in pure pleasure.

Akihiko hisses through his teeth as he moves, his cock pulsing with every shift. “Y-You’re so warm inside,” he chokes out, pushing back his hair, “It feels amazing.”

Hiroki feels like he’s already going over the edge with simply these light thrusts, simply the feeling of him. Yet, he begs for more, harder. His moans rise in pitch, his words in incomprehensibility. Every inch of his body shutters in ecstasy; it cries out for Akihiko.

It gets to the point where Akihiko slams into him with every thrust, the slapping of skin filling their ears. Akihiko looks down at Hiroki with his perfect, enamored eyes, speaking sweet things between groans of pleasure: “You sound so cute, Hiroki.”; “You’re so fucking hot.”; “You’re doing amazing, baby.”

Hiroki can barely form appropriate words to respond; the sheer pleasure wracking through his body does the talking. And suddenly, the familiar coil of heat forms at the bottom of his stomach. “A-A-Akihiko, I-I’m close!! I’m r-really close!!!” Drool runs down his chin as he cries out the warning.

“Me too, baby,” despite the meaning, his statement comes with composure. He angles his thrusts upwards, attempting to hit Hiroki’s spot every time.

 

“I love you, Hiroki.”

 

Come splatters on Hiroki’s right hand. White noise: the static from the other end of the telephone, the buzz of a shameful vibrator, the neverending whir of Hiroki’s air-con. His room is impossibly dark. Hiroki’s free hand grips pale blue bed sheets. Heavy heart. There is no dopamine high.

“F-Fuck…” Hiroki’s eyes well with tears. He hits the wall. “Fuck!” The feeling of tightness returns to his throat, the intense pain. He coughs roughly, releasing a red petal. A thorn haunts his tongue.

“...Hiroki?”

“Would you stop calling me that!?! For fuck’s sake...” The feeling of drowning. Tears spill down Hiroki’s hot cheeks. He releases a pathetic sound: a choked sob. Below everything, he lets out an unspeakable wish: “...Why can’t I just die already? Why can’t it just kill me?”

“H-Hey wait,” the man’s voice returns to its original height, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s—!” he gasps between sobs, “J-Just shut up! Leave me alone!”

The other end goes silent with the exception of worried breath. In and out. Quietly.

Hiroki takes so many tissues out of its box that there’s none left when he’s done. He cleans his vile, vile hands, dries his eyes, and blows his nose. The remainders get stuffed in the back of his underwear; the lubricant would surely come out during the night. He isn’t up to getting up to actually clean himself at the moment. No motivation whatsoever.

He still cries, but the sobs have been reduced to small whimpers. The man on the other end still breathes.

“Hiroki—”

“N-NO! S-Shut up…”

Quieter this time: “Hiroki, please just listen to me.”

Hiroki bites the inner part of his hand in an attempt to soften his sniffles. “...D-Don’t call m-me that…”

With a shaky breath, he releases, “Okay.”

Teeth in skin.

“You shouldn’t—” he stops himself to drink, “If you need to talk through something, that’s fine. I just— You shouldn’t be saying things like that. Y’know, I’m an operator for a suicide hotline on the side so you can talk to me about these things.”

_ What a combo… _ He knows that the man on the other end is just doing to keep him on the line, to make him money. Yet… His mouth moves without permission from his brain. “...I can’t talk about it.”

“Are you in a bad situation?”

_ Yes. _ “H-He wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Look,” the clatter of the keyboard comes from the receiver, “There’s no charge, okay? I canceled it. Just talk to me.”

“I can’t talk to you about it. I said I  _ can't.” _

“Why?”

Hiroki studies the bite on his palm. He can’t respond. He  _ can’t. _

 

“Listen,” he sighs, “Can… Can I meet you? Like, in person.”

“What?”

“I’m just— I’m worried, y’know? It’s just, I think you need help and I—”

“A-Are you fucking joking? Seriously?”

“No! I wouldn’t— I don’t want to hook up or anything like that, I just need to talk to you.”

The feeling of disgust returns to the pit of Hiroki’s stomach. Betrayal when there was no trust to begin with. Heartbreak when there was no—

“It’s…” Hiroki’s lip trembles. “It’s none of your fucking business.” Frantically, he hangs up, turns the ringer off, forgets the phone number. Forget everything.

Enveloped in sticky summer air, pale blue bed sheets, and sweat, Hiroki cries. No tissues. Flowers in his lungs. Flowers in his mind. Thorns in his tongue.


	5. day 4 - stealing kisses

When Hiroki’s mind stirs for the first time on Wednesday morning, he does not open his eyes. He mellows in the thoughts that occupy his barely-awake brain. He flexes his fingers.

It is not “morning.” It is one o’clock.

He knows many things without opening his eyes. The first is that he is cold; hot evenings bring freezing mornings. Another: he is in his apartment. Lastly, there is a cloud of shame. It lingers in his mind, tinting every morning thought with a pinch of sour regret. He cannot and does not want to remember why. Why the shame?

_ I defiled him. I defiled an image of him. A fantasy of him.  _ My _ Akihiko. _

Hiroki opens his eyes. His stomach is bare; the flimsy t-shirt had risen above his chest. Outside of that and a pair of loose boxers, he is nude. His pale blue bed sheets have been tossed away from his bare legs— another twinge of guilt. Piles of tissue surround him. A pink vibrator stands on his dresser.

He cannot feel the aching yet, but he knows he will when he clears his throat. The illness will bite him for his faults.

_ Wednesday. _ Akihiko will come today.

 

After an obsessive cleaning of every surface and object in Hiroki’s apartment, he settles into a bath of warm water. It is meant to clear his bumbling mind, but it still fills with worry. Now it wasn’t just the watered-down blood and occasional petals, it was thorns too. One had gotten stuck on the inside of his cheek, leaving a large, bleeding hole. He runs his tongue along the sore flesh. Copper.

Hiroki has no idea when Akihiko will come over, but his anxiety does.  _ Now, _ the anxiety tells him,  _ Now _ and _ now _ and _ now. _ He listens carefully above the sloshing water for a doorbell that never comes.  _ Akihiko. _ He rinses his hair.

 

Hiroki always wears his best underwear when he sees Akihiko— it’s a useless habit that he can’t ditch. The rest of the more attractive clothes, however, must be saved for another day. There’s no way he can get through this sickness without sweatpants. And, as a precaution, he wears a cotton face mask. Its purpose isn’t to prevent the spread of illness, but to conceal blood and blush.

At five, the doorbell finally rings. And suddenly, Hiroki is filled with energy.  _ Cure, _ he thinks, _ cure. _ His medicine has arrived.

Hiroki is overtaken when he opens the door. The few days have felt like years, years since Akihiko’s perfect strong build that Hiroki wants nothing but to rest his head upon. He holds pounds of paper: gifts. Rolled up sleeves, the lingering scent of tobacco. Thin lips.

A beautiful voice expressed in a monotone: “Hiroki—” He stops himself, covering the new smirk with his (holdable—  _ I need to hold it) _ hand. “Your hair is a mess.” He gently ruffles Hiroki’s hair, the smile now visible. “There.”

Hiroki’s heart is white chocolate in a microwave. His brain is still.

“...You’re awfully quiet today, Hiroki.” Akihiko steps past Hiroki, entering the apartment. He did not ask to be let in.

_ Hiroki. Say it again. _ Head down, he clears his throat. “It hurts to speak.” The door closes by itself. Unlocked.

“Did you clean up? It looks nice.”

“...I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Well,” Akihiko drops the stack of paper on his desk, “Now you do. There aren’t any new big assignments, but you’ve got an awful lot of studying to do.”

Hiroki groans,  _ “Fantastic.” _

“Ah, and also,” Akihiko takes the bulk of the paper off the stack, “I brought my manuscript for you to read if you’d like to.”

Hiroki freezes, a shot of happiness running through him. “Isn’t,” he coughs, his face mask hiding the blood, “Isn’t your deadline on Friday?”

Akihiko makes himself comfortable on the edge of Hiroki’s bed. “I figured I’d finish early this time. You wanted to read it, didn’t you?” Akihiko holds the draft out for him.

No longer roses in his lungs— roses in his cheeks.  _ For me? _ Hiroki turns a deep red.  _ All for me. _ Hiroki takes the manuscript and sits beside his beloved. Face hidden behind his shaggy hair, he mumbles, “...You didn’t have to do that…” Even quieter, just above a whisper: “Thank you.” He holds the uncovered book to his chest.

This one had the title  _ 25th Century Nostalgia.  _ Hiroki can see the cover: simple; white and pale gray with black block lettering; a salmon spine; no bookmark. He can picture it on the front shelves of every bookstore. Akihiko’s perfect face would be on every best-seller list, every television program. Hiroki would receive an invitation to a black-tie event and ignore it.

 

Akihiko and Hiroki speak for hours about what garbage happened in their shared classes and Hiroki’s favorite phrases in the first few chapters of the new book. Hiroki’s voice slowly grows less raspy, his eyes brighter. Their thighs touch from proximity. This is the cure.

_ Yet… There’s always a yet. _

There's a question he doesn’t want to ask, but something drives him to. 

“How’s Takahiro?” It makes him sick to his stomach to even say such a thing.  _ How's Takahiro? Why would I even ask that? I don't care how he is. He knows that I don't care. He probably finds it weird that I would even ask. _

“He's well,” Akihiko says, a small smile creeping on his face.

“Oh,” he looks down, “That's good.”  _ Why does he smile like that? Why can't he smile at me that way? _

Akihiko taps Hiroki’s forehead, “Hey, don't get jealous like that.”

_ What? _

“You’re still my best friend.”

He should be relieved. He should be thankful.  _ I'm his best friend, right? Then why do I feel so… _

“Well,” Akihiko stands, brushing off his trousers, “I probably have to head out. I’ve got a meeting with my editor tonight. I’ll try to stop by later, okay? Don’t die.”

Hiroki’s bottom lip shakes. _No._ _Tonight? You’re going back? You’re leaving me?_ “Akihiko!” _I’m touching his hand. I'm holding on, but he's not holding back. Why won’t he hold me?_

Akihiko looks back at Hiroki with eyes of confused concern. “...What’s wrong?”

Hiroki, flustered, lets go. His hands cover his face. Lips hidden by his pinkies and the mask, he continues, “Can you stay the night?”

Akihiko’s gaze softens; Hiroki can feel his stare. He slowly goes to sit back on Hiroki’s bed. “Do you still feel sick? I thought your voice was starting to get better.”

Akihiko’s hand on his back. Hiroki wants to cry.  _ Touch me. _ He brings his knees to his chest. Riddled with embarrassment: “...I want you to stay…”

Akihiko pats his head and sighs, “...Okay. I’ll call my editor.” He stands up, pulling his phone out of his trouser pocket.

_ Joy. _ Hiroki lowers his hands, watching Akihiko walk as he makes the call. Perhaps the mortifying embarrassment was worth it— he had won the rights to Akihiko for a full night. All him, all his strong, beautiful back. He, worthless Hiroki, was Akihiko’s top priority. Excitement, awful excitement accompanying joy. Akihiko would be Hiroki’s, just for one night. He shifts his legs.

“Onodera-san?” says the beautiful baritone, “I can’t make it tonight.” The other end is quite a bit of yelling and not much else. “Yeah, yeah. Calm down. I have the manuscript done… I can’t come. Just read it on your own and I’ll come by tomorrow… Because my friend’s sick and I need to stay… If you need the manuscript so bad, it’s on my coffee table… The spare key’s in the fern outside. Bye.” He groans as he hangs up. “So annoying…”

Hiroki’s still stuck on a minute before.  _ Because my friend’s sick and I need to stay. I need to. _ He dips his head.  _ Friend. Sick. Need. _

“So,” Akihiko sits back beside Hiroki, “I guess we’re having a sleepover then. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Hiroki yawns, “And you shouldn’t be leaving your spare keys outside. It wouldn’t be good if you got robbed.”

“But you keep one under your welcome mat, don’t you?”

“I don’t necessarily own all the riches in the world like you do, Akihiko.”

He huffs, “I’m not  _ that _ rich.”

“Sure.” Hiroki’s missed this banter. It felt like middle school again; they didn’t have to think about anything but each other. Hiroki could shove Akihiko and it wouldn’t seem weird. It wouldn’t be weird to hold hands.

“Hiroki?”

“Hm?”

“Do you want to go to sleep? You look tired.”

“...” Hiroki rubs his eyes. The illness has been making him get tired faster and sleep longer.  _ The illness. _ Just talking to Akihiko for a while made him nearly forget about it. If it weren’t for the fatigue, he’d be free of worry. He’d go back to school in the morning and everything would be normal. Under his breath, he responds, “...Yeah, a little. It’s not even that late… ‘M sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. You need to get good rest so you feel better.” Big, cool hands rub Hiroki’s shoulder.

A blush dusts Hiroki’s cheeks. He thinks of something wrong. “...Crap. I don’t have a futon or anything so…”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

He shifts his legs. The minuscule sliver of hope wanted Akihiko to finish this conversation with Hiroki’s. However, it looks as though Hiroki’s tired brain has to. “...But I’ll get cold…” He prays that his face mask is properly covering his reddened cheeks. The same goes for his sweatpants.

Akihiko looks at Hiroki with an awful grin.  _ Please don’t say it. _ “What the hell… You’re so needy!” Akihiko takes a jab at Hiroki’s side, laughing. “Fine, princess. Whatever your heart desires.”

Hiroki looks to the side. He should be overjoyed— sleeping in a twin-sized bed with Akihiko was the perfect way to end a pleasant evening. Yet, his heart burns. He hates being in the in-between; he hates interpreting every word as something bad. Fantasy-Akihiko wouldn’t call him needy, even if it was a joke. Fantasy-Akihiko would rub along the curve in his waist. He would say with his beautiful inflection: “I thought you would never ask.”

But, at the same time, not-caring-for-some-sick-pervert-Akihiko wouldn’t call him “princess.” He wouldn’t even say yes. He would laugh it off and that would be the end of it.

Kind and cruel: Hiroki wishes it was one or the other.

Hiroki wishes he wasn’t selfish.

 

When Hiroki comes back from the bathroom— his face washed, teeth brushed, and  _ other things _ taken care of— Akihiko nearly kills him. His shirt is unbuttoned to his stomach, exposing his perfect, strong chest. His trousers have simply been discarded; they lay in a crumpled mess next to a pile of books. His fingers are threaded through his hair. Hiroki’s mouth is a desert.

“Do you mind if I borrow some sweatpants? I hate sleeping in slacks.”

It takes Hiroki a comical amount of time to register the question. Not moving anything but his mouth, he responds, “They won’t fit you.” The third issue he took care of in the bathroom returns.

“...I guess you’re right. Oh well.” Akihiko crawls in Hiroki’s bed— fantasy, fantasy. “Night.”

Hiroki turns off the lights. He makes his way under the covers, fearful of and needing to touch Akihiko. “G-Goodnight.”

 

Their backs pressed together. Hiroki’s heart is thundering. Akihiko was so close, as close as Hiroki always wanted. Hiroki can feel each time Akihiko breathes just from the slight expansions of his back. He can hear every small noise that comes from his mouth.

As much as Hiroki wants to dedicate each of his thoughts to the man in his bed, his groin wants otherwise. He shivers with every small movement of Akihiko’s legs, each time their skin touches. It’s throbbing, not just  _ there _ but everywhere. He can’t take it, but he can’t live without it. This closeness.

 

The first and last time Hiroki ever masturbated in front of Akihiko was a very similar situation. It was during the last year of junior high— right after Hiroki accepted his love for Akihiko and right before he gained any morals whatsoever. Around this time, Akihiko started sleeping over more often. At the time, Hiroki thought this was Akihiko’s way of warming up to him, but in hindsight, it was avoidance of his family. Nearly everything was avoidance of his parents— Hiroki knows this now.

They were sleeping on separate futons but were only inches away. Hiroki could feel Akihiko’s breath on his skin as he slept. The hormones got to him.

But now, Hiroki isn’t an insanely hormonal pre-teen and he  _ did _ have morals… Hiroki slips his hand into his sweatpants and covers his mouth with his sleeve. Sickness overrules all.

 

It doesn’t take Hiroki long to disregard the shame behind his actions. Within seconds, he’s pumping his dick at a steady rate and praying that Akihiko is actually asleep— or maybe he wants him to be awake. Deep inside, Hiroki wants Akihiko to listen to him the same way he does. He wants him to study every soft sound and every little movement and he  _ wants  _ Akihiko to turn around and kiss his neck and touch him everywhere and be fully conscious of everything—

Akihiko flips over. Hiroki’s heart stops. But then, the sweet sounds of sleep. Akihiko’s bare thighs rubbing against him, the movement of his chest with each slow breath, the buzz of his lips, everything,  _ everything. _ All of Hiroki’s thoughts are bad ones, unforgivable ones. His cock twitches. He curses into his sleeve.

Akihiko has always been a heavy sleeper.

Slowly, so very slowly, Hiroki turns to face his beloved. In the dim light, Hiroki studies Akihiko’s perfect face, neck, collarbone. His lips tremble.  _ Shit.  _ He buries his face into his chest, taking in his scent. Lavender body wash and tobacco. Hiroki hasn’t smoked in years but the desire to his been awoken again. Smoking cigarettes meant being surrounded by his scent. Hiroki’s spare hand caresses along his torso.  _ Shit. _ The fist in his pants tightens and begins to move again.

It’s difficult for Hiroki to register that what he is currently experiencing is real. This Akihiko was no imposter over the telephone nor a stranger from a gay bar. It was him: in the flesh. It was his breath tickling Hiroki’s ear. It was  _ his  _ scent. Hiroki whimpers into his chest, lips almost touching skin.  _ Akihiko’s skin. _ Hiroki plants a small kiss below his collarbone. Then another. A thousand stolen kisses. All for Akihiko.

When everything gets hotter and his breathing gets heavier, Hiroki removes his mouth from Akihiko perfect skin. He can’t prevent himself from whimpering and moaning. He doesn’t think when he clutches onto Akihiko’s shirt, salivating. He doesn’t stop himself from the incessant whispering of Akihiko’s name so close to his ear. He thinks of nothing but Akihiko, and then, of nothing at all.

It’s an intense orgasm: muscle spasms, unintelligible moans— the whole shebang. It takes Hiroki minutes to fully return. But when he does, the euphoria is completely absent. There’s nothing but shame and rose petals and hurt. Only Akihiko’s soft breathing remains.

Hiroki, after wiping his come on the inside of his sweatpants, leans into Akihiko once again. He wraps his arms around him and makes a thousand wishes, kisses a thousand more kisses. He tries not to cry. He tries to forget. He tries and tries but Akihiko never holds him back.

He fails at everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u haven't noticed already, tumblr wrongly marked my original blog (juroguro) as nsfw. please follow @juro-guro for fic updates until further notice!! gay rights y'all 🤘😔🤘


	6. day 5 - red wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhhhh sorry for the late update!!!! i've been feeling like garbage lately so i haven't been productive qwq. the next chapter will be up in regular time tho!
> 
> i hope you enjoy <3

Hiroki wakes to a cocoon of warmth: strong arms placed loosely around his torso, legs crossing each other underneath thin bed sheets, beams of sun enter through the spaces in the blinds. But, in contrast, there were chilled hands. There was a cold, confused stare. A stare comprised of amethyst eyes.

Hiroki blinks open his eyes and inadvertently squeezes Akihiko’s torso. Small noises, small thoughts.  _...Akihiko. _

When Hiroki’s eyes of love meet Akihiko’s eyes of confusion, the morning suddenly isn’t half as pleasant as it once was. They were model lovers: limbs wrapped around each other, one pair of eyes gazing into the other’s, an after-sex glow. But they weren’t meant to be model lovers. They were meant to be model close-friends-and-nothing-but.

 

A realization.

Hiroki’s face becomes stone— red rock in America’s southwest. All still with the exception of his trembling lips, his frightened mind. He gives a forced laugh, “O-Oops… S-S-Sorry.”

Akihiko grins, refusing to break eye contact. “Guess we got tangled up in the middle of the night, huh?”

“Y-Yup…”  _ Has he not noticed? _

“Well…” Akihiko begins the process of untangling their limbs at the worst possible spot: the legs. It only takes the slightest movement before Hiroki cries out.

 

A good percentage of Hiroki’s fantasies consist of and revolve around morning sex; after all, it was a rare occurrence for Hiroki to wake up and not tent the bed. Today is not a rare occurrence.

_ Why am I so horny lately? _

Hiroki, head buried in Akihiko’s chest, whimpers, “S-Sorry, it’s…” The words trail out in a hiss. Slight friction. He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He doesn’t know how to.

Akihiko’s bare (painfully bare! temptingly so.) thigh still presses itself into Hiroki’s groin. He looks down, blowing air through his nose— an awful, terrifying sound. He touches Hiroki’s back and is met with a shiver, a low, muted sound. “Ah,” another small chuckle, “It’s okay.” He pets Hiroki’s hair, strengthening desire, strengthening all of it, all the sickness, enough to kill. “That’s natural.”

Hiroki’s eyes well with tears. It’s all too much. There he was: surrounded in Akihiko’s scent, nestled in his arms. And yet, he was sick— to his stomach, not his throat. At least that hasn’t changed.

“Just,” Akihiko slowly back away, carefully, “when you get rid of this cold, get out to a bar or something. You need it.” A faded, fake smile. There’s no need for an explanation. Hiroki knows exactly what he means. It means “not me;” “not this;” “not right now.” It means “find someone else.”

Nausea is an ailment meant to come in waves, but it hits Hiroki like a brick. 

Hiroki wishes he said under a hush, “I can help you.” He hadn't. He would never. “...Yeah.”  _ A bar… _

“Um,” Akihiko manages to get out of the bed (Hiroki didn’t help with the matter in the slightest), “I’ve got a meeting with an editor, like right now, so…”

Hiroki doesn’t speak. He curls into the fetal position, knees pressing into the shadow of Akihiko’s warmth. The last thing he would desire is for Akihiko to leave, but he needs him to. He needs to breathe. Alone.

“Take care of yourself, Hiroki. I’ll see you later, okay?”

Hiroki wants to respond but all that meets Akihiko’s words is a fit of coughing.  _ Take care of yourself. Bar.  _ Flowers, flowers all over.

The door shuts.

 

* * *

 

It took Hiroki hours to leave the house so he could get fucked by some rando, but he made it. After a particularly long bath and an even longer cry, he stands in front of his apartment building questioning whether or not this was the right choice. He looks around, observing the hundreds of cherry blossom trees on the verge of bloom. This used to be his favorite time of year, but the events of this spring have seemed to change that. The threat of death isn’t the most pleasant thing.

Head dipped, he begins the shameful walk to the gay district of Tokyo. It’s a path walked so often that he doesn’t even need to look up. He’s afraid to show his face in these parts of town anyway.

 

Whenever Hiroki thinks about sex, a wave of shame comes to him. After all, in his eyes, what he’s doing isn’t  _ normal. _ Even the simpler things— he’s gay— are incredibly hard to swallow. He’s aware that it’s a new era and all, but he’s the one who gets dirty looks for acting and dressing and talking the way he always has. He’s the one who can’t look up while walking towards Ni-chome in fear of seeing anyone he knows.

He’s the one who loves his best friend and thinks it’s disgusting.

 

And then, Hiroki nearly dies. When he looks up at the source of an approaching, fizzing sound, he’s convinced it’s a nuke: World War III. He snaps out of the bad thoughts and enters survival mode; fight-or-flight. In the end, he does neither, only shouting and shielding his chest.

But then… nothing. Hiroki slowly opens his eyes and is met with nothing more than a bottle rocket. “...Huh?”

“Sorry!!!” The apology comes from a nearby park. A man, tall in stature and light on his feet, comes jogging Hiroki’s way, waving his hands about. By the time he reaches Hiroki, he’s out of breath. He bows and collects the murderous plastic bottle. “I’m… really sorry. Did it hurt you—?” The man locks eyes with Hiroki— a bluish-gray Hiroki had never seen before. His lips separate.

“W-What?” There’s a strange feeling in Hiroki’s chest.

The man stands back up; Hiroki’s head barely reaches his shoulder. He lowers his voice, taking a step towards Hiroki, “Is something wrong?”

Hiroki takes a step back, pressing his back against a storefront window.  _ What the hell… _ “What do you mean?”

Another step forward, the lowering of his head. “You’re crying.” A sharp, precise gaze. The man, ever so gently, rubs Hiroki’s cheek with his thumb. His lips. His perfect hands. Akihiko’s hands.

_ What? _ His heart feels like… “I-I-I am? Oh…” He clears his throat, a treacherous sound. “I-I didn’t notice…” Hiroki rubs his eyes with the base of his sleeve, and surely enough, the wetness soaks in.

And then, a switch flips. The stranger grabs Hiroki’s forearm, a determined look in his strange eyes. “Nice to meet you. I’m Kusama Nowaki.”

 

* * *

 

Hiroki groans.

After spending the majority of the day sitting with some old rich men and their “Wa-chan,” he’s in desperate need of a drink. On top of that, nearly getting  _ murdered _ halted his plan to get laid! And— even worse than all of that!— the same idiot who started all of this is following him home!! With each footstep he hears from behind him, Hiroki’s rage shoots up in tens.

He ignores the fact that the stranger is handsome and has nice, smooth, Akihiko-esque hands. He ignores the look in his eyes. He ignores that fact that he wants to be held.

He wants to be held.

Hiroki finally turns around as he approaches his street. “Is there something you want?”

Nowaki stops in his tracks as if he is surprised. “I…” He looks down. “I’m worried. You were crying so much…”

_ What the fuck… Why is he trying to stick his head in my business?  _ Hiroki turns back around. He responds with a sneer in his voice, “There’s nothing to worry about. Go home.” Hiroki continues his walk home, coughing every few steps. The footsteps follow.  _ Worried. I’m worried. _ Hiroki swallows and shoves his hands in his pockets.

Nowaki speaks as if he didn’t hear anything Hiroki said: “You’re a Teito student, right? Can you tutor me?”

_ Right. He’s not even in college yet. Why am I even  _ thinking _ about him? _ “Tutor yourself. I’m busy.”

“...Please? I  _ need  _ to pass the high school proficiency test since I dropped out in middle school.”

_ What the hell!! Who is this guy, taking his education for granted?!? _ Hiroki grunts and plants his feet in the asphalt. “The answer is no. Find someone else.”

Nowaki takes Hiroki’s arm forcefully but with a gentle touch, with Akihiko’s hands. “I want  _ you, _ Hiro-san.”

Hiroki stands there for a moment, eyes wide. He feels weak at the knees, weak in the heart. He doesn’t feel sick. “H-Huh?”  _ His lips… _

Hiroki doesn’t think. He lets this man mold his every decision. He thought his sickness made him vulnerable, but perhaps it’s the other way around. Being cured, even for a moment, made him careless.

Hiroki turns back around, heat trickling to face. He doesn’t pull his arm away or tell him off. He walks in slow steps.

Nowaki stops asking questions.

 

When they reach Hiroki’s apartment, his heart is explosive. Nowaki watches as he fumbles with keys. His eyes say a million things.

Hiroki is filled with anticipation more than he is fear. Whenever he’d go out with some man, he’d  _ never  _ bring them to his apartment. That opened too many possibilities, too many ways things could go wrong. Yet here he was, letting a complete stranger into his personal space.  _ Sickness of the mind. _

Hiroki closes the door behind himself. Removing his shoes, he mumbles, “D-Do you want a drink?”

Nowaki, watching everything, responds with a smile. “I’m okay. Thank you, Hiro-san.”

He gazes to the side, heart thundering. He can’t bear to look at Nowaki, his face, his lips. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from doing a million regrettable things. He sighs, leaving the  _ genkan _ and going straight towards his barren liquor cabinet. He takes out a cheap bottle of red wine. “Well, I’ll help myself then.”

 

It doesn’t take Hiroki too many glasses to spill his entire life story to Nowaki. By the time he’s halfway through the bottle, he’s admitted nearly every terrible thing he’s done to Akihiko, both physically and in spirit. By the time he’s three-quarters in, he’s done the reverse.

It only took him one glass to start crying, however. Bawling in front of a man he just met. Pathetic. Unlovable.

It only took one glass for Nowaki to sit next to Hiroki and give him a shoulder to cry on. Listening. Holding his hand.

 

Hiroki takes a swig right from the bottle, continuing with burning eyes, “-And I hate him for making me like this but I-I don’t have anything else but him,” he hiccups, “I wish he could just find out and hate me so I don’t have to keep thinking about it. I can’t-” Hiroki bites down hard on his lip and buries his snotty face into the sleeve of Nowaki’s sweater. Muffled by the fleece, he sobs. “I-I can’t keep living like this… I can’t...”

For the past hour, Nowaki has done nothing but listen. After being mute, the first thing he says is: “Hiro-san…” He closes his eyes.

With that, Hiroki snaps out of it. He pushes himself away, wiping his face with his sleeve. “...Sorry. I’m sorry.” He clears his throat, an awful sound. A coughing fit.

He misses Akihiko. He misses him so much. No matter how much he vents to Nowaki about his cruelty, Hiroki still loves him. And every time Hiroki envisions being held or being loved or being cared for, it’s always with Akihiko. No one else. The fact that Hiroki even thought about relying on someone else was a sin.

 

Hiroki reaches for a bottle that’s no longer on the table. It stands next to Nowaki, hidden. A small voice, “I’m cutting you off.”

The brash side of drunk-Hiroki comes out with that comment. His response is half-slur, half-stutter: “W-What the hell? Who do you think you are, you big idiot!? I-I can make decisions for myself, y’ know?” In Hiroki’s attempt to retrieve the bottle, he just ends up falling back into Nowaki’s arms. His big, strong, caring arms. Akihiko’s arms.

Nowaki has a pained look on his face. “You’re not well, Hiro-san. I can’t have you hurting yourself more.”

“And why the hell do you care!? This is none of your business!!”

“I love you, Hiro-san.”

There’s a shift in the air. The screaming in Hiroki’s mind ceases. All he can hear is the traffic outside, his heartbeat, Nowaki’s heartbeat. “W-W-What th’ hell…? No way. Shuddup. We just met.” Hiroki doesn’t move as he protests. He doesn’t want to leave Nowaki’s warm arms. Nowaki’s arms. Just Nowaki’s. “Don’t s-say that.”

“Can I kiss you, Hiro-san?” His voice is stable, collected. Hiroki can feel him staring without seeing his face.

_ He’s way too direct… _ Hiroki looks up at him, wobbly from liquor. “...You’re not supposed t’ ask th-that.”

Nowaki tilts his head, providing a small smile. “Can I?”

“...” Hiroki leans his head into Nowaki’s chest.

 

“I don’t know, can you?”


	7. day 6 - fireplaces

When Hiroki wakes, he doesn’t notice his terrible headache, the sickness of his stomach, nor the slight burn in his trachea. His focuses on an unfamiliar scent, a pair of warm hands holding his waist. An unusual comfort. He leans into a chest, strong and smooth. Such warm hands.

The men Hiroki slept with rarely stayed the night, never mind waking with him in the morning. But Nowaki didn’t sleep with him, not in a sexual way. He only held him through the night, laying small kisses on his scalp and wiping his tears away. Saying stupid things: “Hiro-san, Hiro-san.” Nowaki stayed awake with him until he sobered up, until the early hours of the morning. Saying stupid things. Romantic things. Holding and kissing him.

 

Hiroki’s eyes drift open unconsciously, taking in the details of the early afternoon. Light beams illuminate portions of Hiroki’s apartment: wine bottle, Nowaki’s turtleneck, Mishima Yukio collection. The details in Nowaki’s skin are visible as well. Tiny marks and tinier scars. Residual acne.

Nowaki looks like an angel while he sleeps; Hiroki can practically see the halo of light crowning him. His eyes are closed so gently, his lips unpursed. He doesn’t snore.

Hiroki truly he thrives in these small moments, the morning-afters. He loves seeing beautiful things that aren’t tourist attractions: a bird forming a nest, young girls with service dogs, Nowaki’s slow-rising chest. He keeps these things to himself.

Nowaki makes a small grunt as his eyes flit open. They seem to be in the same state of mind. They give each other the same sort of look, the same sort of smile.

Yet, Hiroki feels guilty.

 

“Good morning, Hiro-san,” he rubs along Hiroki’s waist, “Do you feel better?”

_ Ah… _ His side stiffens up, “...Yeah. My head hurts, though.”  _ Such a kind touch… _

Nowaki smiles, his perfect teeth sticking out.  _ Perfect… _ Hiroki hates himself for thinking of that. There’s no such thing as a perfect person, especially not  _ two.  _ “Do you want me to get you some aspirin?”

Hiroki hoards the blanket. “...Can you? Thanks.” He hates asking for things, but his head hurts too much to care. “It’s in the nightstand.”

“Roger.” He pecks the top of Hiroki’s head before sitting up. Such a sweet action. Nowaki opens a drawer and pauses. “Ah.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” it rattles and shuts, “I just opened the wrong drawer.”

“Huh?” The continued opening and closing of drawers. And then, he realizes. The pathetic, pink, phallic thing. He goes red at the face. “O-Oh.”  _ Disgust. Disgust and shame. _

Nowaki doesn’t provide further comment. The shaking of pills. “Do you want one or two—?”

“Nowaki?”

“Yeah?”

“We didn’t have sex last night, right?”

Nowaki tenses up. “Do,” he turns to Hiroki, “Do you not remember?”

Hiroki shifts. The air had changed. “No, I do. I-I just wanted to make sure…”

Nowaki’s eyes aren’t what they were in the morning. “No,” he taps two Tylenol into his Akihiko hands. Perfect hands. “We didn’t.”

Hiroki swallows. “Okay.” He sits up and takes the pills out of Nowaki’s palm. He takes them dry.

“I love you, Hiro-san.” Nowaki watches him as he takes the pills, “You remember that, right?”

Hiroki shifts, refusing to meet his gaze. “Y-You shouldn’t throw around words like that.”

Nowaki’s lips tremble. Hiroki can see the hurt. “I… I wanted you to be my tutor because I fell in love with you at first sight.” His words sound like an apology. It’s as if Nowaki can tell that what he’s saying is childish. It’s as if he wants to take it back and store it deep within himself.

Hiroki tries to stay strong but his voice wavers. “Love at first sight? Wh-What are you saying?” His face goes hot.  _ Love… _ It felt wrong to think of that word without Akihiko being the subject of it. To love someone else, to be loved by someone else… That is Akihiko’s word. Love belongs to him.

“The first time we met, you were crying because of... Akihiko-san, right? I won’t ask what happened between you… but…” Nowaki takes his hand to Hiroki’s cheek, forcing eye contact. He looks like a lost puppy. “I swear I’ll never do that to you. I fell in love with your tears. But now, I want to see you smile.”

 

When Hiroki thought about loving Akihiko, his heart was a thunderstorm: striking lights and roaring sounds. Rain, thousands of liters downpouring onto Hiroki, only Hiroki. But, when he lends his heart to Nowaki, it’s a fireplace. Just with the strike of a match, his body is inflamed intensely and for hours. It’s pain, burning. It’s the pain Hiroki has always wanted.

After the fire goes out, however, Hiroki becomes nothing more than a pile of ash and rubble.

 

“I can’t.”

Nowaki stares at Hiroki’s lips for minutes. His chest doesn’t move when he breathes. It looks like he’s either about to cry or vomit. Hiroki feels the same way.

“I can’t,” Hiroki repeats. He feels his eyes gloss over. “I can’t an-and I can’t because I’m…”

Nowaki’s puppy eyes.

“I’m gonna die soon.”

 

Dead air. Tears roll from his eyes. Hiroki didn’t want to say it— he didn’t even know what he was saying while he was saying it— but he did. He told the truth. A truth that he himself couldn’t accept. 

Hiroki can tell the difference now; Nowaki looks like he’s about to vomit. His lips shake, his eyes scan the room— he’s a kid! He’s just a kid! “What?”

Hiroki closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see Nowaki’s bottom lip curl and be bitten. He doesn’t want to see the look in his pretty eyes. “I-I’m gonna die soon, Nowaki. It’s either throat cancer o-or schizophrenia and either way I’m gonna just end  _ it _ when it gets too bad—” He’s cut off with his own sobs. “Fuck.” He buries his wrists into his eyes. He can’t see it. “F-Fuck, I’m sorry Nowaki. I-I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that I can’t. I’m sorry that I’m i-insane. I’m sorry.”

“Y-You’re not—”

_ “I am.” _

 

Nowaki’s hands find Hiroki’s. His head bows into his shoulder. The tears soak in.

  
  


* * *

 

 

The corner store bell sounds. Hiroki enters, going straight to the register. He buys a carton of cigs. The pricey ones.

Outside of the corner store, the city birds chirp. Hiroki rips the plastic off of his purchase with his teeth. He taps out a cigarette and places it between his lips. He fishes a matchbox from his trench coat pocket, takes one out. With a swish, fire. A smaller, controlled fireplace, one that Hiroki can handle. Tobacco smoke. The flame is ceased by a jab into Hiroki’s palm. Exquisite pain, perfect redness. The matchstick falls.


	8. day 7 - plain gold rings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update again qwq i'm a busy bee!! hopefully this quenches ur thirst lol

_ A field of long-grass, flowers, and bumblebees. Pansies, daffodils, and, of course, roses. They all paint a perfect scenery: Akihiko and I in the most beautiful place in the world. _

_ “And then,” Akihiko continues with his plot, “The woman realizes that he doesn’t truly love her. She leaves him.” Akihiko squeezes his hand, tender! absolutely perfect! “After years of searching, the love she’s wanted has been within her. Her romance be not a romance, but deep self-love. All the small things— waking in the morning to birdsong, brushing her teeth clean, hot breakfast; these are the things that are needed. She was looking for a chilled spring wind, not a lovely tornado.” _

_ I sway our hands with each slow step in our endless field. There’s a deep desire to cup his perfect face in my hands and kiss it for hours. I want to take his beautiful words from his lips. My voice is small, quippy, “A tornado cannot be lovely, Akihiko.” _

_ He turns to me,  _ the look in his eyes! _ “No, they can. You’re a lovely tornado. A lovely, lovely tornado. My Hiroki.” _

_ A warm smile grows on my face. He always says the nicest things, sweet things. So kind. _

 

_ “Hiroki… There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about.” Akihiko stops, letting go of my hand. _

_ Tension burns through my body. The bad sort of butterflies in my stomach take flight. “O-Okay.” My eyes lower.  _ I love you. Don’t say bad things. Don’t hurt me. I’ll break.

_ “I love you Hiroki, you know that right?” He faces me, sweeping locks of hair behind my ear. _

_ Pink floods me; I can’t meet his eye. After years and years of the “L”-word, it’s still completely embarrassing. That and the hair-brushing thing— how cheeky! It’s only a reflex to feel so warm after a move like that. His rounded fingertips rubbing behind my ear is sweet and nothing but it. Akihiko’s endearing actions sweep my fears far, far away. Just like that. “...Yes.” _

_ “Ah,” a sly smile, “How cute. You’re all red.” _

_ That doesn’t help the situation. _

_ “You know, the spring breeze might have been right for our protagonist, but it isn’t right for me,” his eyes on mine, oh! “My feelings towards my tornado— my lovely,  _ lovely  _ tornado— are not just those of love, no. You bring me passion, joy, and belonging. You are everything good and nothing bad, my Hiroki.” He leans to kiss my forehead but stops right before lips meet skin. “I can’t bear to lose you.” And then the kiss: minuscule. _

_ The bend of his knees, the hand in his breast pocket, the tears in my eyes. I’ve imagined this very scene millions of times but never once did I expect it to become something true. Akihiko kneels before me and says the fantastical words and all I can do is sob and sob and sob. Flowers sprout and grow about us, rejoicing and praising. I can’t stop the tears. _

_ It’s a plain gold ring, simple and small. When Akihiko slips it on my finger, he doesn’t let go. Roses grow around us in snakey vines; embracing ankles, hugging pant legs. He kisses my knuckles and the thorns cut into his neck and the ropes of stem bind me in place and the lilacs of his eyes yellow and rot and he croaks “tell me yes” and “tell me yes” and bloody strangulation and “tell me yes.” _

 

_ I always wanted to raise a window garden box with my Akihiko in front of our shared apartment. I always wanted to prune it before heading to university and for him to hang on my waist and kiss my nape. My thumbs are brown, however, my palms red. _

_ Akihiko and I in the most beautiful place in the world. _

 

* * *

 

When Hiroki would have the flower dreams, he’d typically wake disillusioned, in a cold, steady sweat. He’d be shaken up for the rest of the day, unable to get rid of the “off” feeling in his chest. He’d throw up some mornings reflexively.

However, today, it’s a deep, burning rage. He wants to scream, bite his fingers, claw at his chest. He feels animalistic and has a tad of murderous rage. His love for Akihiko is not simply love, it is rage and desire and hate and bleeding and an inescapably deep pit of loneliness, loneliness thick as black tar and as thin as the blade of a straight razor.

He wants to be held. He wants to be held and to have a flower box on the door of his shitty apartment. Is that too much to ask?

Bleeding rage and heart rate. Hiroki hits the mattress with his fist. Hot, misty eyes. Circular burns on his thighs and palms. He grinds his teeth into his bottom lip until it tears. Flaring nostrils.  _ Akihiko. _

And he grabs his waist with his arms folded over one another. His fingers dig deep and they scratch and his lips curl and his heart pounds.

Nothing. Nothing and a makeshift ashtray filled with cigarette buds. _ Akihiko… _

 

Hiroki finally rises from the bed; his entrapment. He downs the rest of the cough syrup— the placebo effect kills the sting. With the help of a mirror, he pulls the thorns and rose-buildup from his mouth. He slaps himself in the face just to make a mark. He brushes his teeth. Just with those actions, he’s exhausted. _ If Nowaki were here… No. _

_ But if Nowaki were here… _

Warm in the morning. Kisses to melt away cognitive dissonance. Soft touches. Hot hands. It doesn’t have to be love— it never  _ had _ to be love. It just has to be holding, just for a while. Just a fling.

_ It would have been nice to keep have around for a while. _

However, it was too late now. Because Hiroki already told him the truth. Because Hiroki rejected him. Because he was ill, terminally so. Because Nowaki was Hiroki’s cure.

Because being cured terrified him.

 

After Nowaki held his sobbing body for several minutes, after Nowaki sobbed too, quietly so, on his shoulder, after he said “no” tens of times as if it were a mantra, yes, after all that he left Hiroki alone. His remnants: a phone number scribbled on a legal pad, minuscule amounts of heat in Hiroki’s sheets, the memory of his touch. And, sooner or later, all of it will fade.

_ Yes, just another day with him would have been nice… _ Hiroki curls his torso, half-nude on the tiled bathroom floor. _ It would have been lovely. _

 

* * *

 

Midafternoon. Hiroki knows that this is the time of day when Akihiko’s thoughts begin to run dry; when the sea of creativity draws back its tide. At the time, he’ll be eating a TV dinner and smoking half a pack. Depending on the week, he’ll take angry calls from his editor and respond to them with equal emotion. He would sigh, groan, smoke would leave from his chapped lips with gusto.

Today, Hiroki prays that he’ll have the time to take a call, just for a few minutes. A few moments with Hiroki’s love. He prays that the reply after a dial tone will be more than “Sorry, I’m busy right now.” But, even that would be enough to get him through the day. Just a second of his sultry voice. Baritones.

 

In a room darkened by drawn blinds, Hiroki sits cross-legged on his bed. His thumb holds down the button numbered 1; Akihiko was always his first speed dial. He holds his breath. Of course, there’s still the fear that he’ll bring up what happened Friday morning, but the rewards outweigh the risks. He hopes they do.

One ring. Two. The click of a receiver, “Yes?”

Hiroki’s heart, heart of hearts. Nearing tears. Softly, a murmur: “Akihiko.”

Static over miles of telephone line, the shifting of sofa cushions. The beloved responds with, “Hiroki, are you doing okay?” Sweet as honey jarred and stored in the back of the cupboard.

Residual hate causes Hiroki to dig nails into his skin. “I’m okay.”

The fizzle of a lighter, something burning. He chuckles, “You are? You sound like death itself. Haven’t you been taking your meds?” The cigarette between his lips acts as a muffler; his utterances are softened.

Hiroki glances at the empty brown vial discarded on the floor, a crumbled legal pad page, crushed cig carton. His eyes return to the grasp on his shin. He lets go. “...Yeah.”

“Then you should be getting better, right?”

“Probably,” the segment following barely reaches above his breath, “I don’t think it’s getting better, though.”

There’s a pause, a point in time where Akihiko ponders how to respond to such a treacherous sentence. “...I’m sorry Hiroki. I hope they kick in soon. I miss being in class with you.”

_ “Miss.” Ah. _ Hiroki’s legs fold up to his chest.  _...Ah. _ “I… Me too.”

“So, please get better soon.”

Hiroki hums. His eyelids grow heavy.  _ You make me better, Akihiko. _ The silent movements of his lips.

“What?”

Hiroki freezes. “Did… Did I say something?” He coughs between words.

“No I…” he pulls the cigarette from his lips, “I must have imagined something.”

“...Oh.” Hiroki slips into the sheets. Despite the time, he was already feeling tired enough to go out for the night. Yet, his heart desires Akihiko’s voice to lull him into the abyss. “How’d the meeting with your editor go?”

“Fine. I just have to fix a few scenes and it’ll be off to the publishers.”

Hiroki smiles, “Cool! Book number two is gonna be flying off the shelves in no time!!”

Akihiko chuckles out an agreement. “But, more importantly, are you liking the book?”

Hiroki shifts.  _ What is that question supposed to mean? _ “I haven’t been able to read much but… Well, of course I do. I love everything you’ve written.” His voice box tightens with the “L”-word, begging him not to utter it. It’s as if he’s crossing a line, never to return.

Akihiko sounds equally strained, “Oh.”

Hiroki bites the inside of his cheek.  _ What the hell is up with him..? _ Hiroki had never heard his beloved sound so unsure about himself. Was he doubting his writing, the power behind his words? Had the seed sprouted? “Did your editor say something bad?”

“Huh?”

“I’m not stupid, you know.” Hiroki sighs into his hand. The thought of Akihiko being upset only makes him feel worse. “You’re my favorite author, Akihiko. And I’m sure that a million other people think just the same. So don’t put yourself down so much, okay?” His shoulders cower. “You’re amazing.”

“Ah,” an elated tone, “Okay, Okay. Okay, Hiroki.”

“...Can you come over tomorrow?”

“I’ll try.”

Curling of toes. “Okay. Text me!”

“Of course.”

 

Hiroki places his landline on the nightstand. The air around him is not cold, but he lifts a comforter over his head.  _ Favorite, amazing,  _ **_love._ ** All Hiroki can hope is that Akihiko feels the same happiness from these words as he does saying them. He can only hope that the expression on the other side of the telephone was a pleased one.


	9. day 8 - teddy bears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dur hur i'm late again
> 
> i'll probably be late next week too but then i'll be good  
> just rlly busy rn lolol
> 
> i hope you enjoy this chapter!

Hard thumps. Shrill rings. Hard thumps. Distantly, miles away: “Hiroki?” Phone ringtone. Hard thumps. “Hi-ro-ki?”

Hiroki, completely exhausted after sixteen hours of sleep, sluggishly opens the door. His lips droop as he speaks, “Whaddya want…”

Akihiko looks like he’s seen a ghost— but, to be fair, he has. “...Did you get hit by a bus?”

Hiroki heads back to his bed, leaving the door ajar. “Yes. Why are you here?”

Akihiko sighs. He takes the open door as an invitation inside. “It’s eight o’clock, Hiroki. Aren’t you usually an early bird?”

“Go to hell. I’m ill.”

When Akihiko walks into Hiroki’s apartment, it’s like he’s never been there before. Sure, his friend wasn’t the most cleanly guy, but he usually never lets himself go like this (not that Akihiko had any right to judge). The towers of books that typically line his walls have fallen and not been stacked back up, floral titles layering the floor. An abundance of tissues surround his unmade bed; his waste bin was already overflowing. And somehow, when he came around just a few days ago, it was completely spotless.  _ A tornado must have come by… or maybe a typhoon? Both? _ Akihiko sets his belongings on the last bare square foot. “Hiroki…”

He’d already crawled back into bed, covers pulled over his head. “Shut up.”

Akihiko grins, sitting on the foot of his bed. Lately, Hiroki had softened up around him, but it seems he’s gone back to his normal, cranky self. “How mean,” he shoves the area where Hiroki’s back should be, “You’re just going to ignore me after I came all this way to see you?”

The lump beneath the covers shift. The top of Hiroki’s head peeks out. His ears are red.

Akihiko laughs to himself.  _ And there’s the cute side again. _ “Do you want to go out for breakfast or something? I forgot to eat before I came.”

Scarlet, an even redder red. Akihiko can see it in the tops of his cheeks too. “I can’t go out… I feel tired just from walking to the door.”

“Huh? Isn’t just your throat that’s bothering you?”

_ No. There are so many more things. _ “...I don’t know…”

“Hm…” Akihiko buries his hand into the mat of Hiroki’s hair. “Have you been bathing?”

“Wha-!” Hiroki sits up, pushing his love’s hand away. “What the hell do you mean by that remark!?”

“Nothing bad, Hiroki. I’m just thinking.” Akihiko gets this incredibly smug look on his face that makes Hiroki’s underwear feel tight. “But have you been?”

Hiroki settles back into the bed, covering his face. “...Yes, idiot.”

“Have you been eating well?”

_ “Are you my mother?” _

“Have you?”

“Yes, of course-!” Hiroki pauses.  _ Oh. _

All these delusions about being deathly made him think that his skin growing close to his ribs made sense, the unceasing stomach cramps as well.  _ Well, I did snack on something while Nowaki was here, right? Crackers? Chips? _ He places a hand over his stomach.  _ How many days ago was that? _

Akihiko sighs— long and drawn; lukewarm. “Hiroki…”

Hiroki furrows his brows and sinks deep into his mattress. He doesn’t feel like arguing with a brick wall. _ A quite clever brick wall, at that. _

Yet, there is no bark nor bite. Akihiko puts it gently, “I’ll go get something from the convenience store across the street. Are you in the mood for anything?”

His stomach speaks after days of silence: “Yakisoba.” Deeper into the mattress. “...The teriyaki type.” Deeper. “Please.”

“Okay,” just before he’s about to get up and leave, he injects, “And one more thing, Hiroki.”

“What is it?”

He turns. “Come here.”

Hiroki has about a million fantasies that coincide with that phrase, but he never expects any of them to come true.

He never expected any of them to come true.

Akihiko’s lips press against his forehead. His cool hands thread through his hair, pushing it back. His lips.

Hiroki is dumbfounded, so much so that he can’t speak. He can hear his pulse throbbing through his head. He can barely breathe. _ A kiss... _

Akihiko pulls away leaving a wet smudge: a blessing. He looks indifferent, completely so. “You’re still hot.”

Hiroki’s eyes dart back and forth. His throat blocks up. He can feel the chap of his own lips in comparison. “...W-What?” His voice raw, cleaned.

“Your temperature,” Akihiko chuckles a bit to himself, cocky, “Or maybe that’s just all the blood rushing to your face that I’m feeling.”

_ Fever… _ Hiroki hurries to cover his face, red and hot as gas range burners.  _ Fever. _ Under the covers he goes again. “W-Who the hell checks a fever like that!?”

“It’s not that weird, Hiroki. Don’t get so embarrassed.” The perpetrator removes himself from Hiroki’s bed, heading towards the door.

“I’m not embarrassed!!!” says Hiroki, stumbling over his words and blushing like a virgin schoolgirl. “W-Whatever. Get me food. I… I’m gonna go take a shower.”

Akihiko turns back, smirking. “You’re a liar.”

_ Huh? _ Hiroki scrambles to hide whatever hint of an erection that might be showing.  _ Fuck… Can he see? _

“You said you already bathed.”

 

* * *

 

“Ngh-!”

For the third time, strings of come fly onto the shower wall as Hiroki bites the meat of his thumb. When his jaw releases, he can’t stop himself from panting heavily and letting out little whimpers. The chances that Akihiko is in the other room are fairly high, so he’s been trying to keep his noises to a minimum (leading to a surprising amount of red rings on his left arm…). Hiroki’s hand— the clean, bitten one— touches his forehead.

_ Fuck!!! Why won’t it go down!?!?! _

 

The stream of water comes to an abrupt halt. After a forty minute shower, Hiroki doesn’t feel any cleaner. Rather, it feels that the grime and sweat on his skin have stuck, water and soap acting as paper mâché.

His skin refreshed through steam, Hiroki steps out of the bathtub. He shakes the water from his hair before donning a towel to the wet mess. An intricate knot of cloth is brought about his waist as well.  _ I should have just brought my clothes in with me… _

 

Hesitantly, he opens the door.

“My, what a long shower. Are you feeling cleaned up now?”

As suspected, Akihiko has broken back into his apartment. He sits upon a stack of poetry textbooks, browsing through Hiroki’s worst translation of  _ Catcher in the Rye _ (it was a first edition; he couldn’t bear to pass it up). A new plastic bag rests at his feet.

“...Shut up.” He quickly shuffles to his wardrobe. Whenever Akihiko sees him in the near-nude, Hiroki is volatile. He can never tell what his love is thinking, even after all these years. His voice holds more expression than the expressor itself. At the moment, his voice is amused. Volatile is the word.

He quickly snatches a sweatshirt, pajama pants, and a pair of boxer-briefs, all of which being shades of gray. And then, he shuffles back into the bathroom to change.

 

The clothes cover nearly every centimeter of his body, hiding away bites, burns, and scratches. And just when he’s in the clear— his top coming down over his chest, the door slams open.

“Hiroki—”

“What!?” He jumps backward, yanking his shirt down. He ignores the pain of slamming into the porcelain throne, simply biting down on his lip.

“Where do you keep your pots?” The intruder seems unfazed.

“I-In the cabinet.”

“...Which cabinet?”

“Oh! Um, the one under the microwave. The top shelf!”

A courtesy smile. “Got it.” He shuts the door.

Finally out of sight, Hiroki squints his eyes and rubs his shin. _ ...I need to stop being so jumpy around him. _

 

His blow dryer is incredibly loud, so much so he can’t hear his own thoughts. But, somehow, one makes its way through. _ ...Doesn’t Akihiko… not know how to cook? _

Into the sink the blow dryer goes (a major safety hazard), out the door Hiroki goes, too.  _ My yakisoba!! _ Hiroki sprints into the mini-kitchen, his feet met with droplets of scalding water. The pot is lifted with bubbles and steam, water flowing out from the sides. All of the knobs are turned to high. He can hear the oven running too.

And there his beloved was, leaned against a stretch of faux granite, completely calm. He picks at his fingernails.

“What the hell!?!?!”

He looks up nonchalantly, “What’s wrong?”

Hiroki gestures at the mess of his kitchen, letting out a groan in the place of a lingual response. He rushes to turn everything off.

“...Do you not want to eat it now?”

“No—! I mean, yes! I mean— Just— Why’d you let it boil over!?”

“Isn’t that normal?”

Hiroki pauses his frantic rush, gawking at him.

He turns his head, “What?”

_ This idiot… _

 

After a few minutes of rapid stirring and a  _ touch _ less heat, it appears Hiroki has saved his meal.  _ Shouldn’t the healthy be caring for the sick? _ That isn’t the case, however. Akihiko watches him cook from afar and Hiroki tries his best to suppress the feeling that this was the slightest bit  _ domestic _ and _ sweet _ but it doesn’t work and his heart starts to flutter and his hands sweat just from the feeling of Akihiko’s eyes on his back—

_ Ah. It’s overcooked. _

Hiroki turns the heat off, sighing. “Do you have something else you want to make, idiot?”

“Nope. I ate something while I was waiting for you.”

_ Waiting. Waiting for you. _ “Suit yourself.”

Hiroki tosses a pair of disposable chopsticks to his pot of yakisoba— no point is washing more than you need to!— and carries it over to the bed. He plops himself down in a huff, Akihiko quickly finding a spot right beside him. Their thighs touch. Hiroki doesn’t make eye contact. He gulps down mouthfuls of noodle and artificial sauce in silence.

“I got you a few more packs of it for until you get better,” Akihiko picks up the shopping bag, rummaging through it, “And some chips. And… nope. That’s it.” He sneaks a cigarette carton in his pocket.

“Um—”

“What?”

“Can I bum one?”

He blows air through his nose, “Since when did you start smoking again?”

Hiroki takes another mouthful before responding. “I dunno… I just feel like it.”

“It’s not gonna be good for your strep—”

“Neither is arguing with you. Gimme a smoke.”

Akihiko grins and elbows him. “Finish eating first. And don’t go so fast; you’ll get a stomach ache.”

Hiroki shoots him a dirty look as he slurps down the rest of the noodles. He places the empty pot on his lap and holds out his hand. “Gimme one—”

Akihiko’s thumb sneaks up to his face, brushing a bit of sauce off the corner of his mouth. Hiroki freezes.

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “You eat too fast.” Akihiko brings the dirtied thumb back to his own mouth, licking off the excess.

A cigarette is placed in Hiroki’s hand. It rolls limply.

“What?”

Hiroki snaps out of it, twisting his body away. Still, he holds his hand out. Begrudgingly: “A light, please.”

 

A cheap pot is empty besides ashes, empty chip bags, cigarette butts, and teriyaki sauce. It sits on the floor, ignored.

Hiroki lays in bed as Akihiko kneels beside it: a father reading a child bedtime stories, a son praying for his sickly mother. They talk like this, Hiroki’s voice slowly returning to its typical inflections, his unconscious smiles appearing periodically. They review class content and vent about exhaustion. Akihiko smiles too, sometimes.

“Ah! I forgot.”: Akihiko interrupts their conversation with this statement. He bends over to get his bags.

_ Oh. _ A nasty feeling grows in his chest.  _ Stay. _ “...Do you have to go somewhere?”  _ Please stay. _

“No, no. I just brought you something.” He yanks the thing out of his bag, large and soft. “Here.”

Big glass eyes stare into Hiroki’s. He takes it into his hands. “A teddy bear?”

“It’s  _ Suzuki-san. _ I figured it would cheer you up.”

“Oh.”

Akihiko does this spectacular thing where he bites the inside of his lower lip as the corners of his mouth raise. “Hiroki?”

“What is it?”

“You’re smiling.”

Immediately, Hiroki tucks the strip of teeth behind his lips and forces himself into a neutral expression that looks anything but natural. His face heats up. “No, I’m not.”

It’s just a teddy bear. It’s just a teddy bear, and yet—  _ oh my God, it’s so much more than a teddy bear! _ Because when Akihiko would get upset as a child, he’d hug it tight and breathe into the faux fur, and when he’d feel anxious, he’d stop by the toy store on his way home and buy one, and when he sleeps each night, he cradles these childish things so close to his chest—  _ oh God! _ These bears were everything to Akihiko and the fact that he was giving one to Hiroki meant millions of beautiful things!

And, even with all that, Hiroki hides his uneven smile behind the fur of Akihiko’s treasure. He holds it just as close, maybe even closer.

 

Hiroki turns to his side, peering up at Akihiko as he smiles too. “Can you read to me?”

“Don’t you have eyes?”

His eyebrows furrow. “Shut up! I don’t want to sit up. And I want you to read it...” Hiroki’s voice trails off at the end.  _ Was that something to be embarrassed about? _

His eyes lower, a pleasant expression. Perfect expression. Hiroki wants to kiss his cheeks. “Yes.”

 

Hours pass; the sun jumps down from the blue sky. Akihiko reads for so long that even his voice begins to grow hoarse. Hiroki listens and rarely comments. Two empty cigarette packs on the dresser. Teddy bear fur feels nice when you kiss it.

“Haruka gazes at the night sky for decades. Her hair grows long and shoes cease to fit. Her skin flakes away and regrows more beautiful than it once was. She loses baby fat and regains it and loses it and regains it and then realizes it does not matter. What matters is the night sky: it’s alluring navy-hued-black and sprawled glitter flourishing above the forest. The night brings an incredibly stillness that humans can never truly experience, but Haruka will try her hardest to make it to the brink. She will hold her breath for decades to become incan—” The words stop.

From Hiroki’s lips come slow, restful breaths. His eyes are drawn closed, peacefully so. Suzuki-san is gently nestled in his arms. There is little congestion in his sound.

Akihiko flips his manuscript to the cover page and places it on the dresser. He rises from his spot and brushes off his knees. He gathers his belongings silently.

Just before leaving, Akihiko brings a quiet goodbye. Instinctively, he brushes Hiroki’s hair back, revealing his brow unfurrowed. There’s a change in Hiroki’s expression, he rolls back his head. Still asleep. Akihiko’s palm lingers. He feels a tightness in his chest that he can’t explain. Like he’s dying, like he needs to speak (but what would he say?), like a spark to the long fuze of an immense bomb: there is a tightness in his chest.

_ Ah… What is this? _


	10. day 9 - cough syrup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> late again. did [trifiesta](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1389730) again this year and it burned me out lmao. should be smooth sailing for here on out.  
> i hope u enjoy!

Hard thumps, shrill rings, phone ringtones, et cetera. “Hi-ro-ki—!”

The man in question has _déjà vu._ He crawls out of bed and stumbles to the door, ignoring the familiarity of the situation. Through the peephole is a warped image: Akihiko dialing something on his cell phone. Hiroki’s landline starts ringing. “Hiroki—?”

Hiroki unlocks the door and flings it open. “Shut up.” His voice is barely a voice. Charcoal.

Akihiko enters, pleased to see his friend’s pissy face. “Nice to see you too.”

Hiroki has already crawled back into bed, hugging his borrowed teddy close to his chest.

“...Have you been sleeping this whole time?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Words softened by fleece blankets.

“Well, it’s past noon. And I left around eight after you fell asleep…” Akihiko bites the inside of his lip and leans on the dresser, “It’s a bit concerning.”

 _Concern._ Hiroki crosses his legs. “...I guess.” A tad of blush enters his face. The thought of Akihiko worrying about him, worthless _him,_ was a double-edged sword. That meant he had a place in Akihiko’s mind, but also that he was a burden. He was taking time out of Akihiko’s day; he was something Akihiko _had_ to attend to, not wanted to. A double-edged sword lodged in Hiroki’s chest.

 

Akihiko reveals a plastic bag— more stuff from the _konbini?_ He places it on Hiroki’s lap. “Here. A present.”

Hiroki looks up at him, confusion and surprise painting his face pink. “...Is it a holiday or something?”

Akihiko chuckles, dipping his head. “No. Well, it’s not really a _present_ per se. I just figured…” his eyes jot up— he looks… flustered? “Well just look.”

Hiroki breaks their eye contact. _What the hell..? He’s blushing?_ He reaches into the bag cautiously, pulling out a bottle. A brown vial of cough syrup comes into sight, this one identical to the empty on the floor.

“I saw that you ran out, so…” Akihiko looks away. He doesn’t finish the sentence.

He _always_ finishes his sentences.

 

Cough syrup wasn’t an embarrassing gift— in fact, it was probably the opposite. If anything, the embarrassing gift was given the day prior. Yet, when delivering the bear Akihiko didn’t get… well, Hiroki doesn’t even know how to describe it. Generally, something like this should be an after-thought, but it seemed for Akihiko it was… the _only_ thought.

“Oh…” Hiroki finally responds, getting himself flustered now, “Th-Thank you.” Hiroki had been with a thousand other men a thousand other times, but whenever Akihiko shows him the slightest bit of attention, he melts like the final bites of a cherry popsicle: sticky and undesirable.

Sheepishly: “You’re welcome.”

 _Huh?_ Hiroki sits up straight, crossing his eyebrows. “Hey.”

Akihiko looks in his direction as a response.

“Is something wrong?”

“I don’t think so.”

Hiroki folds his arms, “You’re acting weird.”

His eyebrows raise, “I am?” He looks like a liar but his voice says otherwise.

Hiroki huffs. _Weird._ “...Whatever. It’s probably my imagination.”

 

Time passes, Hiroki forgets his concern. Akihiko reviews the materials that Hiroki missed out on in class; Hiroki constructs theories and predictions on _20th Century Nostalgia_ which Akihiko continuously proves wrong, the awkwardness from their meeting disappears.

And reappears. And disappears. And reappears. An emotional pendulum.

It’s Hiroki complaining about being cold and Akihiko going to hold his hand. It’s how he doesn’t let go; it’s how Hiroki doesn’t want him to let go. It’s how Akihiko’s icy hands shouldn’t help Hiroki’s fever chills but how the emotions associated with those _hands_ and with that _holding_ makes his body hot and his brain mushy. It’s Akihiko not wanting to let go either but not understanding why and getting flustered and looking away and having weird thoughts—

A chirp breaks the moment, shatters it. Akihiko pauses, whipping his phone out of his pocket. He flips it open.

 

Hiroki doesn’t experience complete devastation— that happened long ago. Sure, his heart may drop to the bottom of his gut and his mouth may go sour and a rose bush may blossom in his chest, but the sixty-third devastation is much easier than the first. It was mild devastation, a minor catastrophe. Because when Akihiko’s eyes light up like _that_ and the corners of his lips become magnetized to the sky and he looks so in love that it’s _ridiculous_ and _disgusting_ and _out of a B-list rom-com,_ he doesn’t have to guess who the text is from. He knows. He knows and it makes Hiroki want to extend his arm over active railroad tracks and wait. _At least it’s not my torso,_ he reassures himself, _at least it’s not my neck._

Akihiko responds swiftly, smashing the “7” button at record speeds. And it makes Hiroki ill. It makes him so ill.

“What is it?” Hiroki asks, not wanted to hear the answer.

“Oh.” Akihiko drops the phone back into his pocket. “Nothing. It’s just Takahiro.”

 _Just._ “Just” and yet he looks like a kid at the candy store, an addict on the morphine button.

Another text. Another response. Hiroki’s hand is cold, colder than ever before. Lonely in a crowded room.

“Shit. I have to go.”

Hiroki isn’t necessarily surprised by this statement but it’s still painful. “...Okay.”

“He wants me to tutor his brother still… Such a pain,” he bemoans with an unconscious grin.

“Yeah,” Hiroki turns to face the wall, laying back down. “I bet.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow— Wait. I have a meeting all day. I’ll—” he glances at his phone, getting up, “I’ll call you.”

 

Alone. Alone again.

Loving Akihiko was all candy hearts. It's sweet in a rather addictive way. Powdered sugar in condensed pink and purple prisms; little hearts with all of these kind messages Akihiko would tell him: small generous exchanges. Hiroki has bags and bags of candy hearts and all of those messages begin to become insincere with repetitivity. The chalky taste is making him ill. _Making me cough._

And yet, Hiroki can’t hate Akihiko for it. He can’t even stop the love: adoration overflowing at the brim. It’s impossible. He doesn’t want it to end.

 

A pound of bleached and cut tree on his nightstand. Hiroki picks it up; he doesn’t have anything better to do. Well, he doesn’t want to do anything better. _There’s no point in studying if I’m gonna die before getting back to class…_ The angel on his shoulder— Nowaki, more like it— doesn’t comment.

It doesn’t take long for Hiroki to become enveloped in the book; the thrilling plot, fascinating characters, the magnificent language. And for a second, he can brush the thought of Akihiko away. He can leave him behind for a moment.

Cupid shoots an arrow through Haruka’s heart, however. And then it’s all love again.


	11. day 10 - chocolate boxes

Four AM. Hiroki runs to the toilet and pukes up his guts. The toilet is so red, he can’t tell if the previous statement is true or hyperbole. The parasite has spread in his restless sleep; a new sharp pain replaced the subtle, aching hunger.  _ Out of the frying pan and into the fire. _ Hiroki doesn’t rest he head on the toilet seat, it drops. He can feel his cranium thud but auditorily, it’s a thrumming, high-pitched ringing.  _ Out of the fire and into the urn. _

Blood and flowers and thorns and stem and porcelain. Hiroki shuts his eyes, finding himself unable to move. A choking feeling returns in his throat. The intensity rises slowly, his brain grows foggy. He clears his throat. Nothing. It does not clear. Little air comes back in.  _ Ah. _ He coughs again. Nothing. _ I guess that’s it, then. _ He coughs sharper this time. Harder. Nothing. Hiroki hoists himself up off the toilet, his coughs growing quick and panicked. Brain fog. Nothing. Nothing’s coming out.

_ Akihiko. _

The mass raises in his throat. He collapses, hacking on the cold floor.  _ Akihiko. _ Petals tickle his throat. Spinning vision.

_ Akihiko. _

 

Lungs grow full, completely full. Out. In, out.

A full rose lies on the floor: stem, bloom, thorns, roots. In a pool of blood and spit and vomit: “Aki…” His eyes shut.

 

* * *

  
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, asterisk, zero, pound. Silver buttons on a steel base; an illusion. It’s all plastic, that and wire. One hole to speak to. Thirty-five holes to listen to. Smooth-feeling, yet uncomfortable.

Hiroki has no clue as to which buttons to press. The logical answer would be “one” twice and “nine” once, but he didn’t have the guts to touch them. What would he say? Was there anything logical he could utter into that one microphone hole?

Hiroki’s lungs tell him to hold down the “one” and let Akihiko— Akihiko, Akihiko, Akihiko!— take him away from the agony. But his fingers have already started typing a set of numbers memorized long ago, numbers memorized so well that he can unconsciously raise the phone to his ear and know exactly what to say into the receiver.

“Hi, Mom.”

Hiroki subsequently receives a scolding like none other: “Why haven’t you called in so long?”; “Hiro-chan, why haven’t you visited lately?”; “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

Hiroki responds blandly and with little truth, “I got the flu.”

“Eh? In  _ spring? _ Don’t tell me you forgot to get your shot! _ ” _ comes before any concern.

Hiroki bites his lip, looking down. “...Yeah, I must have forgotten.”

His mother continues with more scolding, nearly one thousand questions about Akihiko, and three for the caller. Hiroki responds to them all in a soft tone, afraid to damage what’s left of his voice.

“Well,” surprisingly, his mother goes to finish the conversation, “I’ve got to go tend to the garden. Get over this cold soon, sweetheart.”

_ I don’t really have any control over that, but… _ “Okay.”

“Tell Aki-kun I said hello.”

“I know, Mom.”

“Okay, Hiro-chan. I’ll go now. I love you.”

Hiroki folds his legs. “...Yeah. Bye.”

“Bye-bye.”

Hiroki sets the phone back down on his mattress. He leans his forehead on his fist. ‘ _ I love you too, Mom. Bye.’ Was that so hard to say? _

 

* * *

 

Two sweaters underneath a trenchcoat, thick corduroy pants, a single-use face mask, and knee socks. For Hiroki, it was painful to simply walk to the door; a trip outside was ridiculously unrealistic. He’s going to die soon though. Why not fall victim to a few cravings?

Down the sidewalk: huffing, puffing, on the verge of vomiting. Somehow, he makes it to the convenience store. He grabs a shopping basket and shuffles to the back of the store.

There’s so much anticipation that comes before the fourteenth of February: flashy commercials, girly romance movies, the fantasy that Akihiko will come to him with a bouquet of roses and double-decker chocolate boxes and all the love in the world to give. But, the day always comes and goes uneventfully. Two things remain: fantasies and marked-down chocolates. Hiroki finds one of those remainders in the back aisles of the  _ konbini; _ he gathers them in the basket. Sale stickers on sale stickers on sale stickers. He’ll save at least five thousand yen.

 

Hiroki wasn’t completely correct with his prediction, but it was fairly close. The cashier’s screen tells him that four thousand three hundred yen are his savings right now; he’s glad he saved all that money from his summer job. Hiroki points at the most expensive cigarettes, “Those.” Five boxes drop into the plastic bag. He feels nauseous.

“Do you have wine back there too?”

 

Hiroki locks the door to his apartment and runs for the bathroom. Ill again. A lot of blood. A lot of thoughts about Takahiro and the beloved, how the meeting was an excuse, how the tutoring was a coverup. A lot of blood flushing down the drain.

He rips the cork off the wine bottle with his keys— an old party trick— and drinks straight from the finish. A cigarette burns in an ashtray, acting as incense. Raspberry-filled ganache; caramel. A forgotten phone number is finally remembered.

 

“Hello, handsome. Welcome to the line. You are speaking to Haruka. How may I help you today?”


	12. day 11- alpaca fur blankets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wahhhh!!!!! we're almost at the end!!! ;-; the next upload will be a two-parter, so get ready!! in the meantime, i hope you enjoy this chapter!

Hard thumps. “Hiroki?” Hard, swift thumps. Phone dial tone. “Hiroki?” Shrill rings. Hard thumps: thuds on thick oak wood, carven wood. “Hi—ro—ki—???”

He isn’t responding.

This is when Akihiko starts to panic: when his heart begins to pound, when the nape of his neck sweats, when his thoughts race in a one hundred meter sprint— _ Where is he? Is he okay? Is he hurt? Does he not want to see me? Has he miraculously gone deaf in his sleep and will not notice it until he goes to turn on the morning news and hears nothing and turns up the volume and hears nothing and he opens his door and hears nothing, nothing at all? _

Akihiko usually wouldn’t panic from something as simple as this. But there were circumstances: Hiroki was ill, Akihiko had warned him he would come over, Hiroki did not respond to this warning, it was seven at night.

But even then, Akihiko would not panic.

Still, Akihiko keeps slamming his fist against Hiroki’s door and dialing his phone number and his heart is pounding so hard he thinks _ cardiac arrest. _

He gives up, scrambling to find the spare key under the welcome mat. Quick. Thoughts racing quickly.

 

There’s an odd song playing in the room. It has the undertones of an 80’s exercise VHS but the tempo is slowed to a quarter of its original, peppy speed. The apartment is nearly the same as how Akihiko left it: books scattered about, crumpled tissues, dust, and dim lighting. There are new things, however. Unsettling things. Wine corks, crushed cigarette cartons, a second discarded brown vial. The sound of heaving. A lack of Hiroki.

Akihiko’s brain races to the bathroom, helps him off the floor, scolds him, makes promises to him. His feet are cement, though, his legs jelly.

It’s out of his control.

 

Hiroki washes his hands for three minutes and gargles the sick out of his mouth with tap water. When he walks out of the bathroom, the last of his self-control breaks. That suffocating feeling multiplied by twenty.

In his doorway stands Akihiko: his perfect lips agape, his perfect eyes wide, his perfect hands loose around a plastic bag, hanging. Before Hiroki can observe the rest of his perfect features, his vision blurs— alcohol, tears. Suffocating.

“I…” _ Love you! _ his brain screams. Akihiko’s perfect chest. _ I love you! I love you! I love you! _ “I l— I l-l-lo— I—!”

“Hiroki.”

Suffocating. In an ocean of roses, Hiroki drowns. _I love you!_ _I adore you! Can’t you read my lips!?_ “I lo—!!” _Can’t you read my eyes?_ It’s not the sobs that hold the words back in his throat, it’s the flowers. It’s not the tears, it’s the snot.

“Hiroki.” Akihiko’s perfect chest slowly approaches. Enlarging, enveloping Hiroki’s line of vision. His chest. His neck. Kissable neck.

“I— I lo-lo-lo— I!! I lo—!” _ I love you! _

“Hiroki.”

“I—”

“Hiroki.” Akihiko’s perfect arms do not crush him, they fold lightly around Hiroki’s crying, curling frame. “Please don’t do this to yourself.”

“I lo—” His voice fades, hiding behind the sobs and tears and Akihiko’s perfect shoulder pressed into his mouth. “I lov… I lo… I…”

“Hiroki,” his perfect voice, “Hiroki.”

His legs fail. Hiroki clutches the back of his shirt— luxury cotton button-down. But Akihiko won’t hold him. The arms are there but nothing else. All business when Hiroki needs something more than a handshake.

He needs medicine.

“Hiroki, let’s go to bed.”

Hiroki allows himself to walk with Akihiko direction and support. He cannot stop his mouth from articulating the “L” word, however. He cannot force his throat open to sound the words.  _ I love you. _ Slow, shaky steps. Akihiko lays Hiroki to bed, sitting on a stack of nearby books.  _ I love you. _

“I… I…” Hiroki feels like a mess right now: unwashed sweats several days worn, messy unbrushed hair, mucus and tears streaming down his face.

For the past day and a half, Hiroki has been waiting for himself to die. Alcohol poisoning, suffocation, drowning, slamming his head too hard on the toilet seat; he’s been waiting for a pop, flash of white light, and nothing else.

But Usami Akihiko came and turned his whole life around.

Besides being an author, a student, and a nuisance, that must be his job. It happened when Hiroki was ten— a sweet, sad, rich boy with ashy hairy laying in Hiroki’s tunnel of greens and whites and blues— eleven— seeing the “L” word in the dictionary and knowing but not wanting to believe— thirteen— watching Akihiko undress in the boy’s locker room and feeling his heart explode, his legs go weak, and his cock jump up— and now twenty-two— wanting to live again, at least for a little while; wanting to love without hating himself for it; wanting to live and love in Akihiko’s arms as he coaxes him to bed and lays him down.

So it gave Hiroki the courage to say it. Say  _ it _ with his whole heart poured into it, the “L” in a shout, the “you” in a scream. With that, he would be cured, truly so. But once he tried, he realized it was no use. His body had already given up on him. It had drawn the tides in before dawn had come.

 

“...you…”

“Don’t speak,” his words soft and luscious and sweet, “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

_ Don’t want. Hurt. Don’t. _ Hiroki nods sharply, biting his lips to stop them from moving.

“I brought you…” Akihiko reaches for the shopping bag at his feet, “You said that you felt cold before, so…” He pulls out a packet of soft-looking fabric in navy blue. He rips the tags and packaging off, draping Hiroki in a sheet of cozy white fur.

Hiroki is curious about the new thing, the soft, warm thing covering his body. _ “L” word. _ He still sniffles and sobs, just now holding love between his fingers, squeezing its softness greedily.

“It’s nice, huh?” Akihiko brushes Hiroki’s hair back, feeling his temperature (hellfire). His expression is disheartened. “I thought you’d like it.”

Hiroki nods, laying on his side. The bear is nestled in his arms. The pain has subsided for a moment.

 

“Hiroki,” Akihiko begins, leaving his hand on his forehead, “Do you remember when we got drunk together when we were kids?”

_ Was that not many times? _ Hiroki doesn’t respond.

“Ah, I figured you didn’t. You were quite the lightweight back then— even more so than you are now.” Hiroki doesn’t bicker. “We stole the whiskey bottle from your father’s liquor cabinet and hid it under your bed.”

As Akihiko continues his story, Hiroki realizes he does not remember. Not only did he start drinking hard liquor a year prior, but his father also  _ stopped  _ drinking in Hiroki’s first year of high school… _ Then… When was this? _

“At midnight, we started taking turns sipping it— it was revoltingly bitter, but we were curious, I guess. But then you started to get sick— like  _ really _ sick— and I didn’t know what to do to make you get better. You wouldn’t stop throwing up and passing out and I thought if I told your parents you would hate me and if I did nothing you would die.” He pauses for a breath. His eyes are distant, so distant.

 

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Please know that this scares me. It does, Hiroki.” Distant. “It does.”

 

Hiroki feels like he just heard something he wasn’t supposed to hear: childhood trauma, a deepest, darkest secret, a sentence in sleeptalk. His liquored brain lets go of most of the words and loses the meaning, but the mood remains. What it was, Hiroki cannot tell.

 

“Ah, what am I even saying? You’re probably too drunk to remember this anyway, so—” Akihiko pauses, looking down. Hiroki has tightly grabbed his wrist. His eyes are teary.

 

“Shh…” cooes Akihiko, petting Hiroki’s hair.

Hiroki continues to wrench over the toilet bowl, sobbing and choking and spasming. A wet, awful sound joins on equally awful scent— half-digested red wine and an indistinguishable metal. Hiroki spits before the nausea hits again. His hands shake.

Still, Akihiko pets him, pulls locks of hair behind his ear, says sweet things, undeserving things. “Everything’s going to be okay, Hiroki.” “I know it hurts. Just push through it.” “It’s okay to cry.” “Shh…”

“Shh…”

 

It’s every few minutes for a few hours that the pair goes back and forth from the toilet to the bed. Hiroki vomits up the rest of the wine until it’s just blood, flowers, and the water Akihiko’s been force feeding him (Hiroki flushes the toilet so quickly that Akihiko can’t get a good look at its contents). And, even more eventually, all that comes up is bile and immense pain.

In between sessions— when Hiroki’s stomach quiets and the pain moves elsewhere— Hiroki lays on his side while Akihiko reads his written words aloud, soothing the pain, distracting.

 

Akihiko pauses his reading to turn the page. He glances down at Hiroki: his eyes no longer teary, but blinking slowly, frequently. He’s gotten sober— well, sober in comparison to three-empty bottles-of-wine-in-twenty-four-hours drunk. A tightness in Akihiko’s chest.

“Do you want to go to sleep?”

Hiroki’s eyes pop up, meeting Akihiko’s.  _ The look on his face… _ Hiroki blushes, hiding his mouth under the covers. “O-Okay.”

Akihiko undoes his tie and flips the manuscript to the cover page. “I’ll stay, alright? You don’t have to ask.”

“...” A thousand shades of red.

“It’s settled then.”


	13. day 12 - barely sweet wedding cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyyyyy we made it to the end!!!!!!! ;-; i hope y'all enjoyed reading this as much as i did writing it! it was actually pretty fun for me + i've never written something this long this quickly :oo
> 
> i'm gonna take a break from writing long-form fanfiction stuff for a while and focus more on my original works, but i'll still be putting out a lot of one-shots! i'm kinda hoping for doing one every week until.... good ole goretober. so, feel free to send me prompts on my [tumblr](https://juroguro.tumblr.com/) to keep me occupied lolol.
> 
> also, i've recently started taking [commissions](https://juroguro.tumblr.com/post/186658261333/commissions)! so, if that sounds up your alley, click the link for more info!  
> \+ if you're feeling generous, you can support me on [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/thanksily/)! please keep in mind that i've written this fanfic (as well as my 60+ others) for free!
> 
> and, as always, kudos, comments, and bookmarks are greatly appreciated (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)
> 
> now, enough blabbering. please enjoy the grand finale! ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ✩‧₊˚ im love u!

_White streamers, white roses, white suits. Our venue is all a brilliant white, just how I pictured it time and time again. White tablecloths, white lights, white wedding cake. The barely sweet vanilla layer cake is stacked in a grand tower, frosted flowers with strawberry centers spotting the icing. White on white on white. A room filled to the brim with Akihiko._

_Camera’s flash as I sloppily cut the first piece. We laugh, smile, frosting makes a mess of our collective fingers intertwined and holding, holding so closely. I scrape down a slice cake with my fingers, slipping globs of vanilla in Akihiko’s wide, laughing mouth. He does the same to me, wiping frosting on my lips and cheeks just so he can watch me lick it off._

_White camera flashes, white lips, one white soul colliding into one of chocolate brown, mixing feverishly like coffee and cream, meeting once and never separating. Our lips join in the center and I tongue at his teeth and camera bulbs flash and explode in white until we are surrounded yet blinded by a heavenly glow and our visibility is the length of one pair of eyes to the other—_ heaven! _A white, unsweet sweetness._

_There is nothing but Akihiko and I forever: our lips sweetly pressing against one another, our hearts interlocked and inseparable, our matching gold rings adorning ring fingers, digging into skin just enough to be comforting and safe but not painful. He holds up the small of my back— a slight dip from height difference— and I caress his strong jaw with sticky fingers._

_Forever. Forever until rust and earth replace an incredibly saccharine bitterness. A sweetness that I have never truly achieved and will always unfruitfully strive for. Forever, until it’s all gone._

_The camera flashing stops and our kiss breaks as if it were staged and nothing but. I open my eyes and see my love— my beloved, my dearest, my everything! I see my love’s skin swell and puff and redden: a body-wide allergic reaction. But he still laughs and smiles and embraces me and holds my hand, squeezing._

_My smile has left. He swells._

_Still, the audience claps and cheers and drinks champagne that looks more like carbonated liquid paper. Their pearly, button eyes. Gigantic smiles._

_It is not a pop that causes Akihiko to leave, it’s a gunshot. A screaming beat breaks my heart and the skin of the Akihiko-balloon. The incessant high-pitched ringing distracts my vision: a horrid, horrid scene. Not just flowers, no, not just flowers. Blood, intestines, gore— that and flowers. Bouquets of roses fall to the floor— the cherry on top._

_The crowd cheers, applauds, shouts “cheese” and flashes cameras: bright, white flashes. I scream inhumanly, as an animal would. Harsh, choked “a”s and “o”s pour out of my throat: guttural, doggish. Beastly._

_And this is the point where the dream is supposed to end: my fresh-pressed suit drenched in blood and viscera, my husband’s corpse ornating the venue, the audience cheering. This is where the dream_ always _ends. But it continues, the cheering, clapping, flashing. I sob and sob and scream and sob as my heart bursts and burns and bursts and burns and bursts and burns._

 

* * *

 

Hiroki shoots up in a dead sweat, nausea sloshing low in his stomach. There’s a lack of the feeling that what surrounds him is real, that he is real, even. Each time he moves his eyes from side to side he can’t believe what he is seeing, not in a bewildered sense, but one of fear.

Is it wrong for him to want the dream to be real? Is it wrong for him to want to sacrifice Akihiko for a moment of love and joy? Is it wrong? Is he wrong?

Yes, yes, yes, yes.

Hiroki wonders how long this disease has truly been around for. Because the floral dreams began when his love did. The pain did too; just now, he can’t distract himself from it.

Was it sickness or simply heightened focus?

 

Akihiko sleeps soundly beside him, not a worry in the world. Small empty breaths come from his pursed lips. His eyelids are visibly heavy; even if Hiroki were to wake him, he’d grumble his “whaddaya want?” blindly.

Hiroki notices that Akihiko’s features get wobbly before he registers his own crying as the cause of it. He lazily rubs the tears from his eyes, slowly returning to his resting position: Akihiko’s arms.

The exhaustion is more immense than the fear.

In his still-drunk haze— three bottles of wine! three!— he nuzzles into Akihiko’s chest, planting kisses in the fertile soil of his pale skin. He hopes his saplings will grow someday, bear fruit. An elderly farmer still prays for a plentiful fall harvest even if he’ll meet his maker in spring.

 

* * *

 

Phone ringtone. Phone ringtone. Phone ringtone. It is not the three previous sounds that wake Hiroki, it’s the sudden lifting of Akihiko’s chest. He sits up; Hiroki’s head drops into the mattress. It’s as if Akihiko doesn’t even acknowledge that Hiroki was sleeping peacefully on his chest moments before. It’s as if he forgets Hiroki entirely.

“Hello?”

Hiroki keeps his eyes closed, refusing to act perturbed (even though he absolutely is). He doesn’t want to make Akihiko feel guilty, especially considering what sort of phone call he was receiving. Hiroki can’t completely make it out, but there’s a lot of “Usami-sensei”s and “the manuscript”s and “Where the hell are you!?”s, so he assumes the worst.

Akihiko groans; Hiroki can picture him leaning his cheek into his fist and squinting his perfect, lavender eyes and his lips plumping and Hiroki’s heart aches. “I finished it. What else do you want from me?”

Hiroki can hear the caller loud and clear now; Akihiko holds the screaming speaker far from his ear. “Usami-sensei, I told you: we can’t just send the book off to publishing with two drafts!! If you want it to be put out there, you have to cooperate—!!!”

“I did _cooperate,”_ the beloved interrupts in a sigh, “If you want the scene to be different so badly, change it yourself.”

More screaming. More passive-aggressive responses. More of Hiroki being tempted to open his eyes; if Akihiko is going to leave, he might as well get in a few more glimpses at his strong, sturdy back. _If_ Akihiko is going to leave.

_When he leaves, that will be it._

“Fine. I’ll be there.” Akihiko hangs up the phone with defeat. Under his breath: “At least I got the last word…” He does his best to climb over Hiroki— _and practically straddles me! dear God!_ He ignores Hiroki’s tear-stained cheeks, his hoarse voice. He slips on his coat.

“Hiroki? Are you awake?”

The questioned shows no signs of life except for a small whine.

“...I’ll call you later.”

 

Hiroki sits up and checks that door is closed, that he’s truly been left alone. He has. It’s cold. His alpaca fur blanket has become a sheet of ice, his skin frozen as well. Hypothermia. He flops back down on the bed.

He lays on his side, not facing the wall but facing the space Akihiko used to occupy. He tries to fall back asleep, but cannot.

 

Hours pass; Hiroki can feel his throat slowly getting soarer and closing up. As much as he’d like to sleep, thoughts of Akihiko clog and constrict his brain. He thinks of how sweet Akihiko as when he was young, how cruel he was as a teenager, how sweet and cruel and _cruel_ he is in the present: prestigious author Usami, valedictorian Usami. He thinks of every moment he can recall with the beloved as if it were a checklist, oldest to newest. He hyper-analyzes a decade’s worth of conversation and touches as if it were Yosa Buson’s poetry. He treasures them.

But was any amount of moments worth it if they meant nothing to the other party?

 

Fifth hour of lying in bed hopelessly. His cell phone starts to ring, an awful ceaseless sound. Hiroki swings his arm over the side of the bed, searching. Ringing. Ringing. His hand finds the neck of a wine bottle. It goes to voicemail. He grips.

 

* * *

 

 _Come on…_ Hiroki waits impatiently for the voicemail to start again, fiddling with the neck of a fourth wine bottle. He hiccups.

And suddenly, relief. “Hi, Hiroki. It’s me. ...I’m sorry about leaving this morning; my editor wouldn’t stop bitching at me. I just got out of the meeting so I’ll probably head over in a few minutes. I’m gonna go shopping first, though.

“See you.”

Hiroki takes a sip of wine, burying his face into his palm. _Ah._ His heart throbs. _I’m sorry._

_“To replay this message, press one—”_

Hiroki slams it.

 

Akihiko sighs a deep, long sigh on his arrival to Hiroki’s doorstep. After being in yet another useless meeting with his editor for much longer than he’d like to have been, he’s exhausted. But, before sleeping his worries away, he figures he’d stop by Hiroki’s place and check in on him. Just in case. Akihiko digs his fingernails into the meat of his thumb. _Just in case._

 He doesn’t even bother with his door tricks this time; it’s unlocked anyway.

 

When Hiroki hears the door open, his heart drops. He wasn’t even worried about it being a robber or murderer— if either of those were the intruder, he would have welcomed them with open arms. But the fact that Hiroki instinctively knows it’s Akihiko is what terrifies him. Because Akihiko told him to stop binge drinking and that also implies to stop chain-smoking and fasting and vomiting up nothing. Because Hiroki was too scared and drunk to listen to that scolding.

So, when Hiroki sees Akihiko, chugging liquor with one hand and holding a cigarette in the other, naturally, his heart is pinged with guilt and shame and pain and thorns. Naturally, his eyes wet.

“...I… I-I’m sorry…”

Akihiko doesn’t look half as willing to accept that answer like he did the previous night. Rather, he looks fed up. Done. “Hiroki.”

That doesn’t help with Hiroki’s eyes. He bows his head— an ashamed puppy after peeing on the rug. A storm starts in his throat.

Akihiko doesn’t come any closer, doesn’t ruffle his hair, doesn’t say “it’s okay.” He stands across the room, his arms crossed, his eyes judging. “Why are you doing this.”

Hiroki peers up. Ashes from the cigarette fall onto his pant leg, burn. He smudges them out. “I…” _Love you?_

“Why are you doing this? Just be honest with me for once. Please.” Beyond the pissy look on his face and the raising of his voice, Akihiko’s afraid as well: afraid to know the answer to his own question, afraid of the charcoal sound in Hiroki’s voice.

For Hiroki, that was the impossible question. _Why am I doing this? Because I love you. Because I hate me. Because I’m at the end of my autobiography and need to stretch out the last page as long and painful as possible to make it feel like living this long was worth it in some sick way._ He can’t bring himself to speak his thoughts.

“Why?”

“I…” He rubs at his eyes.

“Tell me why, Hiroki. I can’t deal with this anymore.”

He attempts to make words, but all that comes out is a coughing fit.

“Hiroki! Just say it, for the love of God. You’re making _me_ miserable, you’re making _yourself_ miserable, you’re...”

Akihiko continues on, his voice getting louder and louder and Hiroki’s skull rings and nausea builds. He’s distracted. Hiroki can only think about his fantasy of their wedding and their proposal and their first _real_ kiss and their life together happily ever after. His head is loud and buzzing and crimson.

 

“I need to.”

 

“...What?” A foul, throaty word.

“I need to... save you from myself.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean—?”

“One of these days I’m going to hurt you, Akihiko. I know you don’t believe it but I will. I’ve seen it.”

 

“I’m going to ruin you.”

 

Akihiko drops his aggressive stance, cranes his head. A tightness in his chest. His throat feels thick, heavy. This is supposed to be his friend’s apartment but… the person living here is not his friend. It’s like he’s switched places with some new, rotten man— not rotten in the evil sense, but the sense of him being dead for a very long time and smelling like dirt. Pitiful. Wrong.

Akihiko’s brain is crimson too, though. “I don’t get what you’re saying. Are you listening to yourself?”

Hiroki rises, discarding the wine bottle and his burnt-out cigarette. He doesn’t feel like he’s a part of his own body. “I’m not. If I were listening to myself, it wouldn’t be honest.”

“...”

“I’m sorry. This sickness isn’t going to go away. It’s always been there.” Hiroki stabs at his own chest with his thumb. “Here.”

“It needs to get rid of me.”

 

Akihiko takes a step backward. He pinches the inside of his wrist— _Wake up!_ “...Have you been taking your medicine?”

“There isn’t medicine. I didn’t go to the doctor.”

Akihiko blinks. “What—?”

“Don’t you hate me now?” Hiroki trudges forward, febrile, “Doesn’t that make you _mad?”_

“I… I don’t hate you, Hiroki. You’re my friend. I’m just worried about your health—”

“Then why are you gritting your teeth? Why are you angry? Why _can’t you deal with it?!”_ His voice raises with every sentence, every unanswerable question. His body separates from his mind, his mind from his mouth, his mouth from his body. Zombie.

“I’m not—!”

“You are. You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Hiroki! Stop saying that!”

“Tell me why you’re mad, then! Why!? Why!? Why!?!?!” Hiroki’s voice is raw to the point of mere sinew.

“Stop it!! You’re not making sense!”

“Shut up—!!!!” With that, the wind is knocked out of him. He doubles over, hacking, struggling for air. He holds onto his stomach. It burns.

 

Akihiko takes another step back, hitting the wall. He watches Hiroki struggle and choke. _I’m scared._ Akihiko covers his mouth, watching red drip from Hiroki’s lips. Slices of tissue. Pooling on the floor. _I’m so scared._ Hiroki’s hands squeeze his stomach. Wordless begging.

Akihiko’s thirteen again, uneducated and underprepared. And Hiroki’s only a boy— small hands, impossible desires, scraped knees. And he’s dying. Akihiko doesn’t know what else to do but watch and feel guilty. The blood is on Akihiko’s hands just as much as it is on Hiroki’s laminate flooring and cotton slippers.

As much as he knows he has the power to stop this, he knows he doesn’t have the will.

 

Hiroki coughs a final cough, his throat finally clear. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, inhaling and exhaling roughly. He lifts his head, expecting to see Akihiko’s bitter, judgmental, yet indifferent expression again.

He predicted incorrectly.

Akihiko’s face is readable for once, completely so. And it’s not just his shaky legs and hands gripping the wall behind him that ticks it off, it’s the wide eyes, agape mouth, raised eyebrows. _Fear._

Hiroki glances back down at the pool of blood and flower petals he’s produced. And back up. A similar fear settles in Hiroki’s mind. But also: relief. He isn’t completely insane. “You… You can see it?”

His eyes pace around the room— perfect lavender eyes!— but finally returns to Hiroki. “This… This is why I told you to go to a doctor! Look at you, you’re bleeding—”

 

_He can’t see it. Not the way I do._

Hiroki bares his teeth again. His short temper returns and it all comes out of him with even thinking because the pressure built up too high and even the thought of Akihiko being so _blind_ and _dense_ was enough to cause such a thin casing to burst—

“I’ve been bleeding for a decade, Akihiko!!”

He stumbles away, suddenly fearful of how Akihiko will take his drunken words. The words he could never say, yet always wanted to, needed to. “You made me bleed all this time… and now that you can see it, it suddenly matters!? Why do you get to decide when it matters!?!”

“What are you talking about!? Fuck, this isn’t good. I’m gonna call an ambulance—”

Akihiko’s reach for the telephone is halted by a book chucked at his perfect arm. It’s a complete miss, but the sentiment does its job. “Oh, so it matters when it’s gonna kill me? Why doesn’t it matter when I’m all alone every night? Why doesn’t it matter when you want to go follow _Takahiro_ around instead of spending time with me? Why doesn’t it matter when I give you my entire fucking heart every single day but you only care about a tiny sliver of affection from some _commoner!?!_ Do you have any idea how much that fucking hurts!?!?”

A book hits Akihiko’s chest. _What?_ “What… What does Takahiro have to do with any of this—?”

“Why don’t you get it!?!?” Hiroki stops for a moment, catches his breath. He picks up another book. “I don’t have fucking _strep_ or _bronchitis_ or anything like that! _You_ made me sick, Akihiko! You’re hurting me before I have the chance to hurt you!”

“I don’t…”

“You’re the only person I’ve cared about my entire life and you just act like it’s nothing! But if Takahiro even _breathes,_ you act like the gates have parted and everything is perfect and your eyes turn into these big cartoon hearts with arrows through them and it makes me _so fucking sick!!!_ I can’t take it!!” He chucks another book; it flies right past Akihiko’s head.

“Wait—”

“What’s so special about him anyway!? He’s just some idiot who says he likes your writing but doesn’t really mean it!. _I_ mean it!!! And—!”

“Hiroki, listen to me—!”

“Shut up!! Would _you_ listen to _me_ for once in your life!?!?” Another book flies across the room. Hiroki’s vision drowns. “He just shows up out of the blue and suddenly he’s all you care about even though I’ve been here this whole time for you!! When you had no one, I was there—” another book, “and I always tried my best to make you happy but—” another book, “apparently that just means _nothing_ to you!!” He throws a big one; it skims Akihiko’s leg.

“And the only thing that matters to you is him!!!!” Hiroki reaches behind him to grab another book—

“Hiroki!”

It all happens in an instant: Akihiko grabbing Hiroki’s arm, Akihiko spinning Hiroki around, Akihiko pinning his wrists to the wall.

They both stop for a moment, panting. He doesn’t want it to, but Hiroki’s heart explodes. _He doesn’t._ Because this was one of the fantasies— _oh God!_ Akihiko— his hair slick with sweat, his cheeks rouged, his lips parted— pinning Hiroki to a wall in an intense frenzy of words and looking deeply (so deeply!) into his eyes and saying something like—

 

“I never liked Takahiro.”

 

Hiroki stares into Akihiko’s eyes. Perfect, stern eyes. His lips shake. “...Wh...What did you say?”

He drops the flower dictionary.

It takes Hiroki a few seconds to figure out what occurred, what is occurring. There’s an incredible closeness between Akihiko and him. Their chests are pressed against one another; Hiroki can feel their breathing aline. Akihiko’s heart beats the same breakneck speed as his own. The grip on Hiroki’s wrists loosens to the point of a cradling and then nothing at all and then Akihiko’s thumbs are smoothing back the tears that blot Hiroki’s cheeks and his slender fingers massage the bottom of his cranium and Akihiko’s lips feel incredibly smooth and chilled against his own and he smells like smoke and soap you get at fancy hotels— _oh God!!! Oh my God!!!!! He kissed me!!! He’s kissing me!?!?!?!? What!?!?!?!?!?_

 

Akihiko backs away, confused by his own reflexes and afraid of the way Hiroki is shaking, thrumming. And that’s when he realizes too. There are blood and saliva and rosewater on his lips, but Akihiko can’t even taste it. He wouldn’t have been able to even if he had kissed properly— opened his mouth a peak, let Hiroki invade him, let himself invade Hiroki. All he can feel is a wetness; all he can hear is shaky breaths and his own heartbeat firing off in his skull like firecrackers on New Year’s Day; all he can see is Hiroki wide and wonderful and his face all pink and his eyes teary and reddened and his hair mussed and his lips parted and gorgeous and…

_Perfect?_

“...Hiroki, I think I’m in l—”

Hiroki yanks his collar forward and takes the words out of his mouth. He ravishes in the moment, finally conscious of all of it. He’s aware of the tongue that timidly pushes back at his own, the hands that fall perfectly in place with Hiroki’s hips, and the love that’s there, _here._ He can touch it, thread it through his fingers. Grab. Pull. Be selfish, but also, be giving. Gift and receive.

And even when Hiroki pauses to breathe (Akihiko’s glasses fog), there’s a continuation. And even when the continuation ends, there’s the expectation that there will be another kiss, maybe even more than that. And their kiss is forever, even when their lips part. _Forever our lips touching, forever our hands holding, forever, forever._ A forever that never, _ever_ ends.

 

Hot air. Hiroki rests his head on Akihiko’s collar; his chest does that thing where it jumps up and down erratically to let Hiroki know that he’s about to start bawling. He lets it happen. If not now, then when?

Akihiko pets Hiroki’s hair as he cries, dazed but also completely rational. He didn’t need to let his mouth finish that sentence. He knows what he was about to say. _I think I’m in love with you._ Tears wet Akihiko’s shoulder. _Hiroki, I’m in love with you._

“What t-the fuck?” Hiroki shifts this head to the side, sniffling and hiccuping, “Th-This is so unfair. I-I spent all this time l-loving you and suddenly you get finally get it? You- You fucking bastard. I hate you.”

Akihiko smiles, kissing the crown of Hiroki’s head. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“B-But seriously, what the hell? I deserve an award or something—”

Akihiko’s head shoots up abruptly, “Wait.”

“W-What?”

“Hiroki, your voice.”

“What about my voice—?” Hiroki lifts his head, too. He goes to clear his throat, but there’s nothing to clear. _Huh?_

When Akihiko smiles, he only lifts the corners of his mouth. He can’t focus on the fact that none of this made any sense, that he should probably be hauling Hiroki to the nearest emergency room. He can’t focus on anything. Anything but him, the flustered look on his face. His tears. “You’re better, Hiroki,” Akihiko leans into him, tracing his fingers about Hiroki’s spine, squeezing. “You’re all better.”

Hiroki focuses on his breathing, his instantaneous, functioning breathing.

There was something Hiroki skipped over on the site that looked a lot like _Wikipedia_ but definitely wasn’t, Hiroki can see it now. At the time, Hiroki completely ignored it. At the time, it was impossible.

 

_What if your unrequited love… starts loving you back?_

 

Hiroki’s throat swells up— not with illness for once, but with realization. Akihiko’s arms rub his back tenderly; Hiroki clings desperately onto Akihiko’s shirt with the fear that he may faint—

_I'm holding on, he's holding back. He's holding me._


	14. day 0 - dream

When Hiroki wakes, it is not a sudden jolt through his whole body and a cold sweat, nor is it to various knocking and ringing sounds, nor is it to the worst headache from the worst hangover he’s ever had. Well, to be fair, he still has a hangover. It’s just a normal one, though.

What he wakes to is the fleeting memory of a dream; the only details remaining tell him it was a pleasant one.

A warmth of another body surrounds his own: arms curled around his waist, hands brushing his hip and ribs, fingers warming. Despite the early morning’s light shining over his eyelids, Akihiko sleeps as if it were the dead of night. There is no stress in his brow.

Hiroki shifts slightly, resting his head in the crook of Akihiko’s neck. He inhales.

There is something amazing about this moment— two lovers embracing, one sleepy and one asleep. There is something perfect. Hiroki will never be able to point it out, but he knows that he would love to be in this moment forever. Just a few days prior, his worst nightmare would be to be trapped in the present, what Hiroki can only now describe as a horrible, lonely suffering.

Rose petals, stacks of old books, pale blue bed sheets, stealing kisses, red wine, fireplaces, plain gold rings, teddy bears, cough syrup, chocolate boxes, alpaca fur blankets, and barely sweet wedding cake. What once were wishes for the future are now bittersweet memories of the past. And whether Hiroki likes it or not, there’s a new future ahead of him, never ceasing to approach. _ I ought to come up with a new list, then. _

 

Sunlight streaks across the cream-colored walls of Hiroki’s flat, bringing attention to every paint stroke, every little lump.

Still enchanted by slumber, Akihiko’s hands squeeze and relax. He breathes slowly and sweetly through his lips.

 

Hiroki sleeps through the alarm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The reason I now find the simplest things dear to me is because the flower known as you has blossomed in my heart._


End file.
